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IBRARY 

/ 


•'TY  OF 


BY 


,   /     /'/•'     .//<//:(•/•.  ('tf/'/'/f    \-  /.///' 


THE 

LADIES'  WREATH; 

A   SELECTION   FROM   THE 

FEMALE   POETIC  WRITERS 

OF 

ENGLAND    AND    AMERICA. 

WITH 

ORIGINAL  NOTICES  AND  NOTES: 


PREPARED  ESPECIALLY 


IF  ©IB 


for  mi  Seasons. 


BY   MRS.   HALE, 

Author  of  '  Northwood,'  'Flora's  Interpreter,'  '  Traits  of  American  Life,3&c. 


BOSTON: 

MARSH,    CAPEN    &    LYON. 

NEW  YORK :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 

1837. 


:ess-,  in  ihe  year  J83G, 
.v  L\\>s, 

tattChOMttS. 


LOAN  STACK 


PRINTED  nr    WILLIAM   A.   HALL  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


THE  office  of  Poetry  is  to  elevate,  purify,  and  soften  the  human 
character;  and  thus  promote  civil,  moral,  and  religious  advance- 
ment. It  doe:->  this  in  a  three-fold  manner ;  by  inculcating  reverence 
and  love  towards  God,  or  piety;  awakening  the  spirit  of  national 
aggrandizement,  or  policy;  (caching  the  true  relations  of  men  to 
each  other  and  to  Nature,  or  Pniio.sophy.  All  poetry,  which  has 
not,  at  least,  one  of  these  three  aims,  is  i'alse  to  its  trust,  and,  what- 
ever may  be  its  temporary  popularity,  will  die  and  be  forgotten. 

Truth  only  is  i  amorta!  —  and  as  Ideality,  of  all  the  faculties 
which  man  possesses,  is  the  one  gifted  to  ascend,  as  it  were,  to 
heaven,  to  bring  thence  the  holy  lire  to  illumine  reason  and  kindle 
tip  the  moral  ieelings,  and  is  also  fitted  for  continual  progress  to- 
wards perfection,  it  follows,  that  individuals  having  this  endow- 
ment, are  delegated  to  discover  and  display  those  aspects  and  rela- 
tions of  truth,  which  God,  for  purposes  of  wise  discipline,  no  doubt, 
has  placed  within  the  compass  of  man's  genius,  bin  has  not  revealed 
to  his  instincts  and  senses;  yet  which  must  be  understood  and  obey- 
ed before  he  can  be  good,  \vise,  and  happy. 

We  may  see,  in  this  constitution  of  man's  nature,  why  there  are 
periods,  when  poetry  seems  to  decline  and  lose  its  power.  These 
are  seasons  of  transition ;  when  the  mass  of  mankind,  having  ap- 
plied to  the  purposes  of  advancement,  the  old  forms  of  truth,  are 
restless  for  some  new  development  of  her  power,  usefulness,  and 
beauty ;  while  the  poet,  instead  of  ministering  to  this  craving  of  the 
soul,  only  serves  up  the  ancient  models  in  new  modes  of  expression. 
As  easily  might  he  reanimate  an  Egyptian  mummy,  by  clothing  it 
in  modern  habiliments,  as  now  impose  on  mankind  those  forms  of 
truth  which  made  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians.  The  perfection  of 
the  poetic  art  will  be  reached,  when  its  just  philosophy  shall  en- 
lighten and  control  its  worldly  policy,  and  both  shall  bring  their 
richest  treasures  to  the  service  and  promotion  of  ivnc  piety. 

The  poetry  of  devotion,  or  piety,  can  only  be  perfected  where  the 
knowledge  of  the  true  God  prevails.  This  is  the  poetry  of  the  Bible; 
the  first  on  record ;  and  the  sacred  lyre  was  early  in  the  hand  of 
woman,  (witness  the  song  of  Deborah,)  and  in  her  hand  it  should 
be  found. 


117 


PREFACE. 

The  great  poets  of  the  heathen  world  were  those  of  policy  only: 
for  their  gods  were  of  human  invention  and  human  passions ;  and 
much,  very  much  of  the  poetry  of  Christian  bards  rises  no  higher 
than  the  heathen  standard.  It  is  the  lofty  and  complete  picture  of 
national  aggrandizement  which  Homer  and  Virgil  drew,  not  the 
greatness  of  the  deeds,  aims  and  passions  they  describe,  that  makes 
their  works  standards  of  human  genius  in  this  department  of  poetry. 
But  here,  woman  has  no  place;  her  harp  cannot  move  stones,  nor 
tame  beasts.  She  must  wait  till  the  flowers  bloom  and  the  birds 
appear.  But  when,  in  the  progress  of  truth,  policy  (or  selfishness) 
gives  place  to  juster  notions  of  what  constitutes  human  happiness, 
then  "  divine  philosophy  "  comes  to  the  poet's  aid,  breathes  into  his 
soul  the  wisdom  from  above,  gifts  him  to  see  and  reveal  the  glories 
and  mysteries  of  Nature,  and  teach  that  "  true  self  love  and  social 
are  the  same ; "  that  there  is  no  pursuit  really  noble  and  good,  that 
<Joes  not  aim  to  promote  the  good  of  others;  and  no  dignity  and 
in  man,  that  is  not  derived  from  his  spiritual  likeness  to  his 
ur.  In  this,  the  test  and  most  exalted  oth'ee  of  the  muse, 
woman  is  morally  gifted  to  excel.  She  has  already  entered  on  her 
,- e.  It  is  to  encourage  her  efforts,  and  dispose  all  who  are 
wishing  for  the  advancement  of  morals,  to  reflect  on  the  aid  which, 
in  the  pres-  :  <  uluvated  genius  of  woman  may 

import,  that  I  hav«>  prepared  this  volume. 
Two  guided  my  •elections;  one,  to  admit  no  poetry 

•ii  wax     upward  and  onward;"  the  other,  to  allow  place 
•  iily  \vhnM-  Mylf  had  some  peculiar  stamp  of  indi- 
viduality, which  marked  their  gen.  rial;  and  I  have  sought 

-ich. 

i  a  \vare  that  there  are  critics,  who  always  speak  of  the  "true 

only  one  manner  in  which 

ladies  could  properly  write  poeti  to  compare  the 

poem-  ilemans  and  Mary  II  Taylor  and 

Miss  I.  •  »  Gould.    Are  not  al] 

/it'ully  tiMiimine.  and  yet  different  in  their  style  of 
-  K  h  unlimited  range  of  sub- 
in  the  manner  of  treating  those  within  ner  prov- 
1  the  delicate  shades  of 

i  lied  and  distinctly  marked  in  the  one  sex  as  its 
in  the  other.    There  are  more  varieties  of  the  rose 
than  of  the  oak. 

-mot  but  believe  that  this  book  will  find  favor  in  the  eyes  of 

\.     It   i^  parti -ularly  intended  for  young  ladies — as  a 

.  hri-jht  and  polished,  in  which  they  may  see  reflected  the 

i  tut1,  the  loveliness  of  the  domestic  affections,  and  the 

happiness  of  pu-ty:  as  a  wreath,  whose  flowers  will  always  bloom 

••  pleasure,  whenever  the  heart  is  opened  to  their  influence. 

Bu  ;  nber  1st,  1836. 


INDEX   OF   POEMS. 


PART  FIRST.— ENGLISH  AUTHORS. 


PAGE. 

FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS  13 

Madeline        -                        -  -              16 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers       -  19 

Breathings  of  Spring              -  20 

The  Spells  of  Home             -  22 
The  Graves  of  a  Household 

The  Image  in  Lava  25 

The  Mother's  Love  27 

Woman  and  Fame  28 

The  Themes  of  Song  29 

The  Return  -              30 
The  Mirror  in  the  Deserted  Hall      - 

The  Welcome  to  Death        -  .  33 

The  Voice  of  Music  34 

The  Hour  of  Death  35 

Kindred  Hearts  37 

A  Thought  of  the  Rose  38 

The  Parting  of  Summer        -  39 

The  Song  of  Night  41 

The  Deserted  House  43 

The  Voice  of  God  45 

Fragment  45 

Man  and  Woman                   -            -  46 

Gertrude                                   -  48 

The  Stranger's  Heart  .50 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girl's  School  -              51 

Washington's  Statue  53 

The  Voice  of  Spring  54 

The  Hebrew  Mother  -              57 

Sabbath  Sonnet  -              59 

The  Poetry  of  the  Psalms  60 
1* 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 

PAGE. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE  -             61 

Sketches  from  the  Legend  of  Lady  Griseld  Baillie  63 

Christopher  Columbus  67 

The  Tomb  of  Columbus  -  70 

Patriotism  and  Freedom  -  71 

The  Elden  Tree  -  72 

To  a  Child  -  76 

Selections  -  77 

True  Love  ....  73 

HANNAH  MORE  -  -  80 

Conversation  83 

Sensibility  -  -  86 

Sketches  from  the  Sacred  Dramas  -  88 

A  \  \  A  L^TITIA  BARBAULD  -  91 

To  Mr.  Barbauld  -  93 

An  Address  to  the  Deity  94 

To  Mrs.  R -  97 

A  Thought  on  Death  -  98 

Washing-Day  -  99 

JANE  TAYLOR  -  102 

The  World  in  the  Heart  -  -  104 

The  Things  that  are  Unseen  are  Eternal  107 

•erience  109 

Accomplishment  -  110 

The  Philosopher's  Scales  -  112 

The  Violet  115 

L^ETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON  116 

Lines  of  Life  -  119 

Female  Faith  123 

Mu-i  124 

The  Poet's  Power  -  126 

The  Adieu  127 

The  Eve  of  St.  John  129 

Change  -  130 

Woman's  Destiny  -  132 

Song  133 

Mont  Blanc  134 

Portrait  Painting  -  136 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Hemans  -  138 

CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON  142 

All  is  forgotten  144 

Wi-  shall  meet  no  more  145 

The  Widow  and  her  Son  -  145 

116 


INDEX  OF   POEMS.  7 

PAGE. 

Woman's  Love  -            147 

The  Fallen  Leaves  -            -            148 

Friendship  -            149 

Thy  Will  be  done      -  -            150 

Recollections  of  a  faded  Beauty  -                        152 

True  Love  153 

My  Childhood's  Home  154 

Music's  Power            -  155 

MARY  HOWITT  156 

Spring  158 

Traditionary  Ballad  159 

The  Lady  and  the  Sea  Captain  -                         163 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly        -  165 

The  Snow  Drop  167 

Thoughts  of  Heaven  -            168 

From  the  Seven  Temptations  170 

MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY  175 

The  Lost  Spirit   ?  -            178 

The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor  ISO 

Symbols                      -  -             181 

The  World's  Masque  182 

The  Birth-Day  Ballad  184 

Song  185 

MARY  ANN  BROWN  u  186 

Man's  Love  188 

Woman's  Love  189 

A  World  without  Water       -  190 

The  Clouds  195 

The  Heart  and  Lyre  197 
The  Departed 

Memory  199 

Kindred  Spirits  200 

CAROLINE  BOWLES  201 

There  is  a  Tongue  in  every  Leaf  -                        202 

Abjuration                   -    %        -  204 

Aura  Veni  206 

The  Woodbine  207 
Lines  suggested  by  some  Late  Autumn  Flowers      210 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers  211 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady  212 

MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD 

Selections  from  Rienzi  215 

The  Morning  Walk  221 


INDEX  OF  POEMS. 
PART  SECOND.— AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

PAGE. 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY  223 

-rara                       -            -  227 

Winter  -            229 

ire's  Royalty        -  -            230 

Stanzas                       ....  233 

Radiant  Clouds  at  Sunset  234 

A  Cottage  Scene        -                        -  -            235 

.Solitude  236 

Alice 237 

The  Coral  Insect  239 

The  Mother  of  Washington  241 

Poetry                          -  -            242 

243 

melon's  Birth-Day       -  -            '-' 1 1 

The  Bride       ...  -            246 

Indian  Names             -            -  248 

Death  of  an  Infant     -  249 

Felicia  Hemans  250 

Blessed  are  t                                        -  -            252 

HANVMI  F.  <;orL!)                -  253 

The  Zephyr's  Soliloquy  255 

The  Little  Foot  -            257 

The  Frost       ...  -            259 

The  Thrice-closed  Eye         -  260 

U        iip  by  the  Rose-Tree   -  261 

low's  Lullaby  262 

The  Empty  Bird's  Nest                     -  263 

The  Prostrate  Pink  264 

The  Moon  upon  the  Spire    -  266 

Recollections              -  267 

The  Waterfall             -             -  269 

The  Wild  Violet        -  270 

The  Frozen  Dove      -  272 

The  Ground  Laurel  273 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY.    -  274 

Clara  276 
The  Mother's  Farewell  to  her  Wedded  Daughter    278 

Sta:                              -  280 

The  Three  Painters  -  281 

ucholy    -                        -  282 

The  Widow's  Wooer  283 

Stanzas  to  a  Sister  284 


INDEX   OF  POEMS. 

PAGE. 

ANNA  MARIA  WELLS  -            -           -           286 

The  White  Hare        -  288 

Ellen  of  North  Carolina  -                                      290 

Autumnal  Musings    -  292 

The  Old  Elm  Tree    -  294 

The  Tamed  Eagle     -  295 

Anna  296 

Whippoorwill             -  -                                      298 

Lines              ...  299 

To  a  Young  Mother  300 

SARAH  LOUISA  P.  SMITH  301 

The  Hunter's  Bride  304 

The  Huma     -  306 

The  Heart's  Treasures  307 

The  Stranger  308 
Trust  in  Heaven 
Stanzas 

I  would  never  Kneel  313 

LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON     -  314 

To  a  Friend  319 

The  Guardian  Angel  320 

To  a  Star       -  321 
Feats  of  Death 
Stanzas 

Fragment        -  324 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD  325 
The  Blind  Girl 
My  Mother's  Sigh      - 

Stanzas  331 
To  a  Young  Friend 
Lines 

The  Star  of  Promise 
A  Fragment 

ANNA  PEYRE   DINNIES  -                                    337 
Wedded  Love 

The  Blush      -  340 
The  Charnel  Ship      - 

To  my  Husband's  First  Gray  Hair  - 
Happiness 

Thoughts  in  Autumn  -                                      347 

Lines                            -  -                                      349 

Stanzas           -  350 

The  Wife       -  351 

The  Heart                   ...  352 


10  INDEX  OF   POEMS. 


SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN  -            354 
The  Blind  Man's  Lay 

Retrospection  ...            359 

She  Blooms  no  more  -            360 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry  -            3W 

CAROLINE   OILMAN  364 

The  Betrothed  365 

The  Mocking-Bird  in  the  City  369 

Which  is  the  Beauty  369 

To -  -                                     370 

Children  at  Play 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET  -                                    373 

Susquehanna  375 

Youthful  Joys  -            377 

To  the  Lance-Fly      -  378 
\v  in;  are  the  Happy 

Stn  379 

Worldly  Cares  381 

IS  ti:                                !  '  38* 

SARAH  JOSEPHA   HALE    -  383 
The  Victor's  Crown 

The  Two  Maidens  -            390 

The  Light  of  Home  391 

:  >,iy 

TheF.v                  ice  395 

The  Silk-\\  397 

me';*  Last  Visit      -  399 

To  a  Palm  Leaf  -            -            403 

rst  Offer!  i  -            404 

The  Amulet 

The  Three  Sceptres  407 


TO 
MRS.    ABBOTT    LAWRENCE, 

AS    A    SINCERE    EXPRESSION    OF 

Becjartr,  Mesptct  amtt  gfratituto, 

THIS  BOOK 

13    INSCRIBED,    BY    HER    OBLIGED    AND 

OTectfonate  JFrfentJ, 

S.  J.  HALE. 


THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 


PART  FIRST. 


FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS.* 

THE  name  of  Mrs.  Hemans  stands  pre-eminent  among 
female  poetic  writers,  as  unquestionably  as  the  Rose  holds 
the  rank  of  "garden  queen"  among  the  flowers.  She  has 
gone  from  us,  but  the  light  of  her  genius  will  never  be  dim- 
med, nor  the  song  of  her  harp  forgotten.  She  has  thrilled 
those  chords  of  the  human  soul,  which,  while  the  race  of 
man  continues,  cannot  but  respond  to  her  sentiments. — 
Love,  in  all  its  purest,  holiest,  sweetest  emotions  of  house- 
hold affections,  patriotism  and  devotion,  was  the  mighty 
spell  by  which  she  wrought ;  and  till  love  shall  cease  from 
earth,  her  name  can  never  die. 

In  perusing  the  Poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  we  are  struck 
with  her  wonderful  perception  of  the  beautiful.  This 
seems  to  be  her  peculiar  gift.  Whatever  be  the  scene  de- 
scribed, the  character  or  object  introduced,  she  always 

*The  Poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans  have  been  published  in  a  variety 
of  forms,  and  in  many  editions.    The  latest  and  most  complete  is 
the  American  edition,  published,  since  her  decease,  by  Mr.  Ash,  of 
Philadelphia.    It  comprises  all  her  works,  in  one  vol.  octavo. 
2 


14  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

gathers  around  her  images  and  allusions  of  exceeding  beau- 
ty ;  and  these  selected  with  a  moral  taste  so  pure  and  re- 
fined, that  it  seems  to  have  shed  the  lustre  of  heaven  upon 
the  things  of  earth. 

This  exhibition  of  refined  moral  taste,  which  can  only  be 
cultivated  in  perfection  when  regulated  by  piety  of  heart, 
will  be  of  inestimable  benefit  to  the  young  imaginative 
reader;  and  so  purely  beautiful  did  her  Poems  appear,  that 
we  scarcely  knew  when  to  pause  in  our  selection.  Mrs. 
Hemans  does,  in  truth,  merit  the  gratitude  as  well  as  ad- 
miration of  her  sex,  for  she  has  exalted  the  genius  of  wo- 
man, and  shown  an  example  of  excellence  in  private  life, — 
thus  proving  that  the  cultivation  of  the  highest  gifts  of  in- 
tellect are  not  incompatible  with  the  performance  of  our 
humblest  duties. 

She  was  born  in  Liverpool.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Browne.  Her  father  was  a  native  of  Ireland ;  her  mother 
was  a  German  lady,  a  Miss  Wagner,  but  descended  from  a 
Venetian  family.  To  these  circumstances  Mrs.  Hemans 
would  often  playfully  allude,  as  accounting  for  ihe  strong 
tinge  of  romance  and  poetry  which  pervaded  her  character 
from  her  earliest  years.  Another  circumstance,  which  un- 
doubtedly operated  strongly  in  the  development  of  these 
traits,  was  the  removal  of  her  family,  when  she  was  very 
young,  to  North  Wales.  That  land  of  wild  mountain  sce- 
nery and  ancient  minstrelsy,  was  the  fitting  place  to  impart 
sublimity  to  her  youthful  fancies,  and  elevate  her  feelings 
with  the  glow  of  patriotism  and  devotion.  She  married 
early,  and  settled  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Asaphs — but 
her  married  life  was  not  happy.  This  domestic  infelicity, 
was  to  her  a  most  painful  subject,  one  to  which  she  could 
bear  no  allusion ;  and  the  tenderness  and  forbearance  with 
which  she,  while  living,  treated  the  faults  of  her  husband; 
render  it  the  duty  of  those,  who  love  her  memory,  to  forbear, 
as  far  as  possible,  from  adverting  to  scenes  and  sufferings 
that  so  tried  and  tortured  her  sensitive  heart.  Suffice  it 


MRS.    HEMANS.  15 

to  say,  that  her  husband  left  her  and  his  five  young  sons  to 
struggle,  as  they  might,  with  sorrow,  and  the  cold,  selfish 
world.  Mrs.  Hemans  continued  to  reside  in  Wales  with 
her  mother,  till  the  death  of  the  latter,  when  the  former  re- 
moved to  Wavertree.  in  the  neighborhood  of  Liverpool. 
Here  she  resided  about  three  years,  and  then  again  remov- 
ed to  Dublin,  where  the  expenses  of  educating  her  sons 
would,  she  found,  be  more  within  her  means.  But  sorrow, 
care,  and  the  "  wasting  task  and  lone  "  of  her  minstrel  vo- 
cation, had  brought  on  a  deep  disease,  which  the  sympathy 
of  friends  (and  who  that  ever  read  the  outpourings  of  her 
soul  was  not  her  friend  ?)  could  not  alleviate  or  remove. 
She  closed  her  life  May  30th,  1835,  "and  died  as  stars  go 
down!"  her  genius  bright  and  expanding  till  the  last,  and 
trust  in  her  Redeemer,  calming  every  fear,  and  cheering  the 
darkness  of  the  tomb  with  the  holy  light  of  faith  and  love. 

"  We  would  not  win  thee  back ;  thy  lyre  e'en  here 

Breathed  the  undying  music  of  the  sky — 
Its  tone  was  not  of  earth,  too  sweetly  clear 

To  blend  with  aught  of  life's  sad  harmony. 
Then  joy  for  thee,  crowned  one !  forever  wearing 

Immortal  glory  on  thy  radiant  brow ; 
Bard  of  eternity !  in  triumph  bearing 

A  lofty  part  in  heaven's  sweet  hymn,  even  now. 
Joy,  joy  for  thee!" 


MRS.   HEMANS'   POEMS. 


MADELINE. 

A   OOMXtTIC    TALJC. 

"  MY  child,  my  child,  thou  leav'st  me »— I  shall  hear 

The  gentle  voice  no  more,  that  blest  mine  ear 

With  its  first  utterance ;  I  shall  miss  the  sound 

Of  thy  light  step  amidst  the  flowers  around, 

And  thy  soft  breathing  hymn  at  twilight's  close, 

And  thy  '  Good-night '  at  parting  for  repose. 

Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 

And  the  low  breeze  will  have  a  mournful  tone 

Amidst  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee, 

My  child !  and  thou,  along  the  moonlight  sea, 

With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 

Shall  watch  thine  own,  thy  pleasant  land  of  France, 

Fading  to  air.    Yet,  blessings  with  thee  go ! 

Love  guard  thee,  gentlest !  and  the  exile's  woe 

From  thy  young  heart  be  far!  —  and  sorrow  not 

For  me,  sweet  daughter !  in  my  lonely  lot, 

God  shall  be  with  me.  —  Now  farewell,  farewell ! 

Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 

Unto  thy  mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 

When  thou  wert  pillowed  there,  and  wont  to  raise 

In  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye 

That  still  sought  mine :  —  these  moments  are  gone  by; 

Thou  too  must  go,  my  flower !  —  yet  with  thee  dwell 

The  peace  of  God  !  —  One,  one  more  gaze  —  farewell ! " 


MRS.  HEMANS.  17 

This  was  a  mother's  parting  with  her  child, 

A  young  meek  Bride,  on  whom  fair  fortune  smil'd, 

And  wooed  her  with  a  voice  of  love  away 

From  childhood's  home ;  yet,  there,  witk  fond  delay 

She  linger'd  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  note 

Of  her  caged  bird  thro'  trellis'd  rose-leaves  float, 

And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck,  and  wept, 

Whilst  old  remembrances,  that  long  had  slept, 

Gush'd  o'er  her  soul,  and  many  a  vanished  day, 

As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said ;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heaved  in  sunset's  golden  sleep, 
With  a  calm  heart,  young  Madeline  ere  long 
Pour'd  forth  her  own  sweet  solemn  vesper-song, 
Breathing  of  home :  through  stillness  heard  afar, 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star, 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters;  till  at  last 
The  sounding  ocean-solitudes  were  pass'd, 
And  the  bright  land  was  reached,  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West :  the  sails  were  furled 
In  its  clear  sunshine,  and  the  gentle  bride 
Look'd  on  the  home  that  promis'd  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  come.  —  Alas  !  we  trace 
The  map  of  our  own  paths,  and  long  ere  years 
With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface, 
On  sweeps  the  storm,  and  blots  them  out  with  tears. 
That  home  was  darkened  soon :  the  summer  breeze 
Welcom'd  with  death  the  wanderers  from  the  seas  ; 
Death  unto  one,  and  anguish  how  forlorn, 
To  her,  that  widow'd  in  her  marriage-morn, 
Sat  in  her  voiceless  dwelling,  whence  with  him, 
Her  bosom's  first  beloved,  her  friend  and  guide, 
Joy  had  gone  forth  and  left  the  green  earth  dim, 
As  from  the  sun  shut  out  from  every  side, 
By  the  close  veil  of  misery  !  — oh  but  ill 
2* 


18  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught,  the  young  high  heart 

Bears  its  first  blow!  —  it  knows  not  yet  the  part 

Which  life  will  teach  —  to  suffer  and  be  still, 

And  with  submissive  love  to  count  the  flowers 

Which  yet  are  spared,  and  through  the  future  hours 

To  send  no  busy  dream !  — She  had  not  learned 

Of  sorrow  till  that  hour,  and  therefore  turn'd, 

In  weariness,  from  life ;  then  came  the  unrest, 

The  heart-sick  yearning  of  the  exile's  breast, 

The  haunting  sound  of  voices  far  away, 

And  household  steps,  until  at  last  she  lay 

On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness,  lost  in  dreams 

Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue-rushing  streams 

In  her  own  sunny  land,  and  murmuring  oft 

Familiar  names,  in  accents  wild,  yet  soft, 

To  strangers  round  that  bed,  who  knew  not  aught 

Of  the  deep  spells  wherewith  each  word  was  fraught. 

To  strangers!     Oh!  could  strangers  raise  the  head 

Gently  as  hers  was  raised?    Did  strangers  shed 

The  kindly  tears  which  bathed  that  feverish  brow 

And  wasted  cheek  with  half  unconscious  flow? 

Something  was  there,  that  through  the  lingering  night 

Outwatches  patiently  the  taper's  light ; 

Something  that  faints  not  through  the  day's  distress, 

That  fears  not  toil,  that  knows  not  weariness ; 

Love,  true  and  perfect  love!  —  Whence  came  that  power, 

Uprearing  through  the  storm  the  drooping  flower? 

Whence?  who  can  ask?  the  wild  delirium pass'd, 

And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  look'd  at  last 

Into  her  mother's  face,  and  wakening  knew 

The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue, 

The  kind  sweet  smile  of  old! —  And  had  she  come, 

Thus  in  life's  evening,  from  her  distant  home, 

To  save  her  child  ?  —  E'en  so  —  nor  yet  in  vain  : 

In  that  young  heart  the  life  sprung  up  again, 

And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give 

Seem'd  this  fair  world,  though  faded ;  still  to  live 


MRS.    HEMANS.  19 

Was  not  to  pine  forsaken.     On  the  breast 
That  rocked  her  childhood,  sinking  in  soft  rest, 
"  Sweet  mother,  gentlest  mother !  can  it  be  ?  " 
The  loved  one  cried  —  "and  do  Hook  on  thee? 
Take  back  thy  wanderer  from  this  fatal  shore, 
Peace  shall  be  ours  beneath  our  vines  once  more." 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

THE  breaking  waves  dash'd  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  toss'd; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame : 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear ;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 


•20  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd  — 
This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  Pilgrim  band;  — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ?' 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ! 
They  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 


BREATHINGS  OF  SPRING. 

WHAT  wak'st  thou,  Spring  ? —sweet  voices  in  the  woods, 
And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute ; 

Thou  bringest  back  to  fill  the  solitudes, 

The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute, 

Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  or  glee, 
Ev'n  as  our  hearts  may  be. 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee,  Spring!  —  the  joyous  leaves, 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  copse  and  glade, 

Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives, 
When  the  south  wind  hath  pierced  the  whispery  shade, 


MRS.    HEMANS.  21 

And  happy  murmurs  running  thro'  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters  —  they  too  hear  thy  call, 
Spring,  the  awakener!  thou  hast  burst  their  sleep! 

Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forest  deep, 

Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And  flowers  —  the  fairy-peopled  world  of  flowers ! 

Thou  from  the  dust  hast  set  that  glory  free, 
Coloring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours, 

And  pencilling  the  wood-anemone : 
Silent  they  seem  —  yet  each,  to  thoughtful  eye, 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awak'st  thou  in  the  heart,  O  Spring  ? 

The  human  heart  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  ? 
Thou  that  giv'st  back  so  many  a  buried  thing, 

Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies ! 

Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth  where'er  thou  art ;  — 
What  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart  ? 

Too  much,  oh !  there  too  much !  —  we  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus ;  yet,  rous'd  by  thee, 

What  fond  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep  cell 
Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see ! 

How  are  we  haunted  in  the  wind's  low  tone, 
By  voices  that  are  gone ! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  never  more, 
Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet, 

Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door, 
And  vanish'd  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet — 

Spring !  midst  the  murmurs  of  the  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  reviv'st  thou  these  3 


22  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead ! — why  come  they  back, 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living  blooms  ? 

Oh  !  is  it  not,  that,  from  thy  earthly  track, 
Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 

Yes  !  gentle  Spring ;  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air, 
Breath'd  by  our  lov'd  ones  there  ! 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 

There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visits  when  most  brief. 

Bernard  Barton. 

BY  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  glade, 

On  the  banks  of  moss,  where  thy  childhood  played ; 

By  the  household  tree,  thro'  which  thine  eye 

First  looked  in  love  to  the  summer  sky ; 

By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 

Of  the  primrose  tufts  in  the  grass  beneath, 

Upon  thy  heart  there  is  a  spell, 

Holy  and  precious  —  oh !  guard  it  well ! 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream, 
Which  hath  lull'd  thee  into  many  a  dream ; 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy-leaves 
To  the  wind  of  noon  at  thy  casement  eaves; 
By  the  bees'  deep  murmur  in  the  limes, 
By  the  music  in  the  Sabbath  chimes ; 
By  every  sound  of  thy  native  shade, 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made. 

By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth, 
When  twilight  call'd  unto  household  mirth  ; 


MRS.  HEMANS.  23 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told ; 

By  the  quiet  hour  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer,  arid  the  kind  "  Good  Night ; " 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  the  spell  been  thrown. 

And  bless  that  gift !  —  it  hath  gentle  might, 
A  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light. 
It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 
In  the  mountain-battles  of  his  land ; 
It  hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas, 
To  die  on  the  hills  of  his  own  fresh  breeze ; 
And  back  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall, 
It  hath  led  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Yes  !  when  thy  heart  in  its  pride  would  stray 

From  the  pure  first  loves  of  its  youth  away ; 

When  the  sullying  breath  of  the  world  would  come 

O'er  the  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood's  home,  — 

Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade, 

And  the  sound  by  the  rustling  ivy  made; 

Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  father's  door, 

And  the  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more ! 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

THEY  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee  ;  — 

Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight ;  — 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 


24  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

One,  midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid  — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  Sea,  the  lone  blue  sea,  hath  one, 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep ; 

He  was  the  lov'd  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest, 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd ; 

She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers,  — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 
Around  one  parent  knee ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth,  — 

Alas !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  oh,  earth ! 


MRS.  HEMANS.  25 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAVA. 

THOU  thing  of  years  departed! 

What  ages  have  gone  by, 
Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 

By  love  and  agony  ! 

Temple  and  tower  have  moulder'd, 
Empires  from  earth  have  pass'd,  — 

And  woman's  heart  hath  left  a  trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast ! 

And  childhood's  fragile  image 
Thus  fearfully  enshrined. 

Survived  the  proud  memorials  rear'd 
By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe  !  wert  thou  brightly  slumbering 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast, 

When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 
Shut  round  each  gentle  guest? 

A  strange  dark  fate  o'ertook  thee, 
Fair  babe,  and  loving  heart ! 

One  moment  of  a  thousand  pangs  — 
Yet  better  than  to  part ! 

Happy  if  that  fond  bosom, 

On  ashes  here  impressed, 
Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child, 

Whereon  a  hope  might  rest. 
3 


26  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavish'd 

Its  other  love  had  been  ; 
And  when  it  trusted,  nought  remain'd 

But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better  then  to  perish, 

Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 
Than  live  and  loose  thee,  precious  one,* 

From  that  impassion'd  grasp. 

Oh !  I  could  pass  all  relics 

Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 
To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument, 

Cast  in  affection's  mould. 

Love,  human  love !  what  art  thou  ? 

Thy  print  upon  the  dust 
Outlives  the  cities  of  renown, 

Wherein  the  mighty  trust ! 

Immortal,  oh !  immortal 

Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 
Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness  — 

It  must,  it  must  be  so ! 

*  The  impression  of  a  woman's  form,  \vith  an  infant  clasped  to 
the  bosom,  was  found  at  the  uncovering  of  llerculaneum. 


MRS.  HEMANS.  27 


THE   MOTHER'S   LOVE. 

THERE  is  none, 

In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 

Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 

A  mother's  heart.  —  It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 

To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn, 

Watching  his  growth.     Ay,  on  the  boy  he  looks, 

The  bright  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path 

But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name" — the  young 

And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  ere  long 

Shall  bear  his  trophies  well.     And  this  is  love  ! 

This  is  man's  love  !  — What  marvel  ?  — You  ne'er  ma 

Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy, 

While  to  the  fulness  of  your  hearts  glad  heavings 

His  fair  cheek  rose  and  fell ;  and  his  bright  hair 

Waved  softly  to  your  breath  !  —  You  ne'er  kept  watch 

Beside  him  till  the  last  pale  star  had  set, 

And  morn,  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph  broke 

On  your  dim  weary  eye :  not  yours  the  face 

Which,  early  faded  through  fond  care  for  him, 

Hung  o'er  his  sleep,  and,  duly  as  heaven's  light, 

Was  there  to  greet  his  wakening.     You  ne'er  smoothed 

His  couch,  ne'er  sung  him  to  his  rosy  rest, 

Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 

Had  learned  soft  utterance  ;  pressed  your  lips  to  his 

When  fever  parched  it;  hushed  his  wayward  cries, 

With  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love  ! 

No !  these  are  Woman's  tasks  !  —  In  these  her  youth. 

And  bloom  of  cheek,  and  buoyancy  of  heart, 

Steal  from  her  all  unmark'd ! 


28  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


WOMAN  AND  FAME. 

THOU  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame, — 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality. 
Away  !  to  me  —  a  woman  — bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring. 

Thou  hast  green  laurel-leaves  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath — 
For  that  resplendent  gift  of  thine, 

Heroes  have  smiled  in  death. 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower, 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour. 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 

Can  bid  each  life-pulse  beat, 
As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown, 

Calling  the  brave  to  meet. 
But  mine,  let  mine  — a  woman's  breast  — 
By  words  of  home-born  love  be  bless'd. 

A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thy  eye, 
To  the  sick  heart  that  doth  but  long 

For  aid,  for  sympathy, 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on, 
For  tender  accents  that  are  gone. 

Fame,  Fame  !  thou  canst  not  be  the  stay 
Unto  the  drooping  reed, 


MRS.   HEM  AN  S.  29 

The  cool  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  soul's  feverish  need : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  flee?  — 
Not  unto  thee,  oh  !  not  to  thee  ! 


THE  THEMES  OF  SONG. 

WHERE  shall  the  minstrel  find  a  theme? 

Where'er  for  freedom  shed, 
Brave  blood  hath  dyed  some  ancient  stream. 

Amidst  the  mountains,  red. 

Where'er  a  rock,  a  fount,  a  grove, 

Bears  record  to  the  faith 
Of  love,  deep,  holy,  fervent  love, 

Victor  of  fear  and  death. 

Where'er  a  spire  points  up  to  heaven, 
Through  storm  and  summer  air, 

Telling  that  all  around  have  striven, 
Man's  heart,  and  hope,  and  prayer. 

Where'er  the  chieftain's  crested  hrow 
In  its  pride  hath  been  struck  down, 

Or  a  bright  hair'd  virgin  head  laid^low, 
Wearing  its  youth's  first  crown. 

Where'er  a  home  and  hearth  have  been, 
That  now  are  man's  no  more ; 

A  place  of  ivy,  freshly  green, 
Where  laughter's  light  is  o'er. 

Where'er  by  some  forsaken  grave, 
Some  nameless  greensward  heap, 

A  bird  may  sing,  a  violet  wave, 
A  star  its  vigil  keep. 
3* 


30  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

Or  where  a  yearning  heart  of  old. 

Or  a  dream  of  shepherd  men, 
With  forms  of  more  than  earthly  mould, 

Hath  peopled  grot  or  glen. 

There  may  the  hard's  high  themes  be  found  — 

We  die,  we  pass  away  ; 
But  faith,  love,  pity  — these  are  hound 

To  earth  without  decay. 

The  heart  that  burns,  the  cheek  that  glows, 

The  tear  from  hidden  springs, 
The  thorn,  and  glory  of  the  rose  — 

These  are  undying  things. 

Wav?  after  wave,  of  mighty  stream, 

To  the  deep  sea  hath  gone  ; 
Yet  not  the  less,  like  youth's  bright  dream, 

The  exhaustless  flood  rolls  on. 


THE  RETURN. 

••  ART  thou  come  with  the  heart  of  thy  childhood  back. 

The  free,  the  pure,  the  kind?" 
—  So  murmur' J  the  trees  in  my  homeward  track, 

As  they  play'd  to  the  mountain  wind. 

"Hast  thou  been  true  to  thy  early  love?" 

Whisper'd  rny  native  streams  ; 
"Doth  the  spirit rearM  amidst  hill  and  grove, 

Still  revere  its  first  high  dreams?" 

"  Hast  thou  borne  in  thy  bosom  the  holy  prayer 

Of  the  child  in  his  parent-halls?"  — 
Thus  breathed  a  voice  on  the  thrilling  air, 

Prom  the  old  ancestral  walls. 


MRS.    HEMANS.  31 

"  Hast  thou  kept  thy  faith  with  the  faithful  dead, 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  nigh? 
With  the  father's  blessing  o'er  thee  shed 

With  the  mother's  trusting  eye  ?  " 

Then  my  tears  gushed  forth  in  sudden  rain, 

As  I  answer'd  —  "  O  ye  shades ! 
I  bring  not  my  childhood's  heart  again 

To  the  freedom  of  your  glades ! 

"  I  have  turn'd  from  my  first  pure  love  aside, 

O  bright  rejoicing  streams! 
Light  after  light  in  my  soul  have  died, 

The  early  glorious  dreams  ! 

'c  And  the  holy  prayer  from  my  thoughts  hath  pass'd,. 

The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee  — 
Darkened  and  troubled  I  come  at  last, 

Thou  home  of  my  boyish  glee ! 

"  But  I  bear  from  my  childhood  a  gift  of  tears, 

To  soften  and  atone  j 
And  O  ye  scenes  of  those  blessed  years  ! 

They  shall  make  me  again  your  own*" 


32  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  MIRROR  IN  THE  DESERTED  HALL. 

O  dim,  forsaken  mirror  ! 
How  many  a  stately  throng 
Hath  o'er  thee  gleamed,  in  vanished  hours, 
Of  the  wine  cup  and  the  song ! 

The  song  hath  left  no  echo, 
The  bright  wine  hath  been  quafPd, 
And  hushed  is  every  silver  voice 
That  lightly  here  hath  laugh'd. 

O  mirror,  lonely  mirror, 
Thou  of  the  silent  hall! 

Thou  hast  been  flushed  with  beauty's  bloom  — 
Is  this,  too,  vanished  all  ? 

It  is,  with  the  scattered  garlands 
Of  triumph*  long  ago, 
With  the  melodies  of  buried  lyres, 
With  the  faded  rainbow's  glow. 

And  for  all  the  gorgeous  pageants, 
For  the  glance  of  gem  and  plume, 
For  lamp,  and  harp,  and  rosy  wreath, 
And  vase  of  rich  perfume ; 

Now,  dim  forsaken  mirror, 
Thou  giv'st  but  faintly  back 
The  quiet  stars,  and  the  sailing  moon, 
On  her  solitary  track. 

And  thus  with  man's  proud  spirit, 
Thou  tellest  me  'twill  be, 
When  the  forms  and  hues  of  this  world  fade, 
From  his  memory  as  from  thee. 


MRS.    HEMANS.  33 


And  his  heart's  long  troubled  waters 
At  last  in  stillness  lie, 
Reflecting  but  the  images 
Of  the  solemn  world  on  high. 


THE  WELCOME  TO  DEATH. 

THOU  art  welcome,  O  thou  warning  voice, 

My  soul  hath  pined  for  thee ; 
Thou  art  welcome  as  sweet  sounds  from  shore 

To  wanderer  on  the  sea. 
I  hear  th  ee  in  the  rustling  woods, 

In  the  sighing  vernal  airs ; 
Thou  call'st  me  from  the  lonely  earth, 

With  a  deeper  tone  than  theirs. 

The  lonely  earth  !  since  kindred  steps 

From  its  green  paths  have  fled, 
A  dimness  and  a  hush  have  fall'n 

O'er  all  its  beauty  spread. 
The  silence  of  the  unanswering  soul, 

Is  on  me  and  around  ; 
My  heart  hath  echoes  but  for  thee, 

Thou  still  small  warning  sound  ! 

Voice  after  voice  hath  died  away, 

Once  in  my  dwelling  heard, 
Sweet  household  name  by  name  hath  changed 

To  griefs  forbidden  word  ! 
From  dreams  of  night  on  each  I  call, 

Each  of  the  far  removed ; 
And  waken  to  my  own  wild  cry, 

Where  are  you,  my  beloved  ? 


34  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Ye  left  me  !  and  earth's  flowers  grew  filPd 

With  records  of  the  past, 
And  stars  pour'd  down  another  light 

Than  o'er  my  youth  they  cast : 
The  skylark  sings  not  as  he  sang 

When  ye  were  by  my  side, 
And  mournful  tones  are  in  the  wind, 

Unheard  before  ye  died  ! 

Thou  art  welcome,  O  thou  summoner! 

Why  should  the  last  remain  ? 
What  eye  can  reach  my  heart  of  hearts, 

Bearing  in  light  again? 
Even  could  this  be  —  too  much  of  fear 

O'er  love  would  now  be  thrown  — 
Away,  away  !  from  time,  from  change, 

To  dwell  amidst  mine  own  ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  MUSIC. 

"  Striking  th'  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  closely  bound." 

Child  Harold. 

WHENCE  is  the  might  of  thy  master  spell  ? 
Speak  to  me,  voice  of  sweet  sound,  and  tell  — 
How  canst  thou  wake,  by  one  gentle  breath, 
Passionate  vision»*of  love  and  death  ? 

How  call'st  thou  back,  with  a  note  or  sigh, 
WTords  and  low  tones  from  the  days  gone  by  — 
A  sunny  glance,  or  a  fond  farewell? 
Speak  to  me,  voice  of  sweet  sound,  and  tell ! 

What  is  the  power,  from  the  soul's  deep  spring 
In  sudden  gushes  the  tears  to  bring; 
Even  'midst  the  spells  of  the  festal  glee 
Fountains  of  sorrow  are  stirred  by  thee ! 


MRS.  HEMANS.  35 

Vain  are  those  tears ! — vain  and  fruitless  all — 
Showers  that  refresh  not,  yet  still  must  fall  j 
For  a  purer  bliss  while  the  full  heart  burns. 
For  a  brighter  home  while  the  spirit  yearns. 

Something  of  mystery  there  surely  dwells, 
Waiting  thy  touch,  in  our  bosom-cells ; 
Something  that  finds  not  its  answer  here  — 
A  chain  to  be  clasped  in  another  sphere. 

Therefore  a  current  of  sadness  deep, 
Through  the  stream  of  thy  triumphs  is  heard  to  sweep, 
Like  a  moan  of  the  breeze  through  a  summer  sky  — 
Like  a  name  of  the  dead  when  the  wine  foams  high ! 

Yet,  speak  to  me  still,  though  thy  tones  be  fraught 
With  vain  remembrance  and  troubled  thought;  — 
Speak  !  for  thou  tellest  my  soul  that  its  birth 
Links  it  with  regions  more  bright  than  earth  ! 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

II  est  dans  la  Nature  d'aimer  a  se  livrer  a  Pidee  meme  qu'on  re- 
doute. —  Corinne. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath 

And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  !  Death. 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve,  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night,  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer  — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  Mightiest  of  the  earth. 


36  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour,  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  overwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears  —  but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee  — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripen'd  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  lime  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !  Death. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  goldengrain, 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale?  — 
They  have  one  season  —  all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air  ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth  —  and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest  — 

Thou  art  \vhere  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set  — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !  Death. 


MRS.  HEMANS.  37 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

OH  !  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below ! 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountain  flow ; 
Few  —  and  hy  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet  — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky. 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns : 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Borne  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring  — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times  — 

A  sorrowful  delight; 
The  melody  of  distant  climes  — 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night; 
The  wind,  that,  with  so  many  a  tone,_ 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill  — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own. 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew  — 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
4 


38  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

If  there  be  one,  that,  o'er  the  dead, 
Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 

And  watch'd  through  sickness  by  thy  bed 
Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade, 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend  — 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given  — 
Oh !  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven. 


A  THOUGHT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

How  much  of  memory  dwells  amidst  thy  bloom. 

Rose  !  ever  wearing  beauty  for  thy  dower ! 
The  bridal  day  — the  festival  — the  tomb  — 

Thou  hast  thy  part  in  each,  thou  stateliest  flower ! 

Therefore  with  thy  soft  breath  come  floating  by 

A  thousand  images  of  love  and  grief, 
Dreams  filled  with  tokens  of  mortality, 

Deep  thoughts  of  all  things  beautiful  and  brief. 

Not  such  thy  spells  o'er  those  that  hail'd  thee  first, 
In  the  clear  light  of  Eden's  golden  day  ! 

There  thy  rich  leaves  to  crimson  glory  burst, 
Link'd  with  no  dim  remembrance  of  decay. 

Rose !  for  the  banquet  gathered,  and  the  bier ; 

Rose  !  colored  now  by  human  hope  or  pain : 
Surely,  where  death  is  not  —  nor  change,  nor  fear, 

Yet  may  we  meet  thee,  Joy's  own  flower,  again ! 


MRS.  HEMANS1.  39 


THE  PARTING  OF  SUMMER. 

THOU'RT  bearing  hence  thy  roses. 

Glad  Summer, — fare  tuee  well! 
Thou'rt  singing  thy  last  melodies 

In  every  wood  and  dell. 

But  in  the  golden  sunset 

Of  thy  latest  lingering  day, 
Oh !  tell  me,  o'er  this  chequered  earth, 

How  hast  thou  pass'd  away. 

Brightly,  sweet  Summer!  brightly 

Thine  hours  are  floated  by, 
To  the  joyous  birds  of  the  woodland  boughs, 

The  rangers  of  the  sky. 

And  brightly  in  the  forests 

To  the  wild  deer  wandering  free ; 
And  brightly  'midst  the  garden  flowers 

To  the  happy  murmuring  bee. 

But  how  to  human  bosoms, 

With  all  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  thoughts  that  make  them  eagle  wings 

To  pierce  the  unborn  years? 

Sweet  Summer!  to  the  captive 
Thou  hast  flown  in  burning  dreams 

Of  the  woods,  with  all  their  whispering  leaves, 
And  the  blue  rejoicing  streams:  — 


40  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

To  the  wasted  and  the  weary, 
On  the  bed  of  sick  ess  bound, 

In  sweet  delicious  fantasies, 
That  changed  with  every  sound :  — 

To  the  sailor  on  the  billows, 

In  longings  wild  and  vain, 
From  the  gushing  founts  and  breezy  hills 

And  the  homes  of  earth  again ! 

And  unto  me,  glad  Summer ! 

How  hast  thou  flown  to  me  ? 
My  chainless  footsteps  nought  hath  kept 

From  thy  haunts  of  song  and  glee. 

Thou  hast  flown  in  wayward  visions, 

In  memories  of  the  dead  — 
In  shadows  from  a  troubled  heart, 

O'er  thy  sunny  pathway  shed : 

In  brief  and  sudden  strivings, 

To  fling  a  weight  aside  — 
'Midst  these  thy  melodies  have  ceased, 

And  all  thy  roses  died. 

But  oh !  thou  gentle  Summer, 
If  I  greet  thy  flowers  once  more, 

Bring  me  again  thy  buoyancy, 
Wherewith  my  soul  should  soar  I 

Give  me  to  hail  thy  sunshine, 

With  song  and  spirit  free ; 
Or  in  a  purer  air  than  this 

May  that  next  meeting  be. 


MRS.    HEMANS.  41 


THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT. 

I  COME  to  thee,  O  Earth ! 

With  all  my  gifts:  —  for  every  flower,  sweet  dew, 
In  bell,  and  urn,  and  chalice,  to  renew 

The  glory  of  its  birth. 

Not  one  which  glimmering  lies 
Far  amidst  folding  hills  or  forest  leaves, 
But,  through  its  veins  of  beauty,  so  receives 

A  spirit  of  fresh  dyes, 

I  come  with  every  star  — 

Making  thy  streams^  that,  on  their  noonday  track, 
Gave  but  the  moss,  the  reed,  the  lily  back, 

Mirrors  of  worlds  afar. 

I  come  with  peace ;  I  shed 

Sleep  through  thy  wood-walks  o'er  the  honey-bee, 
The  lark's  triumphant  voice,  the  fawn's  young  glee, 

The  hyacinth's  meek  head. 

On  my  own  heart  I  lay 
The  weary  babe,  and,  sealing  with  a  breath 
Its  eyes  of  love,  send  fairy  dreams,  beneath 

The  shadowing  lids  to  play. 

I  come  with  mightier  things : 
Who  calls  me  silent  ?  —  I  have  many  tones  — 
The  dark  skies  thrill  with  low  mysterious  paoan« 

Borne  on  my  sweeping  wings. 
4* 


42  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

I  waft  them  not  alone 
From  the  deep  organ  of  the  forest  shades, 
Or  buried  streams,  ushered  amidst  their  glades 

Till  the  bright  day  is  done ; — 

But  in  the  human  breast 
A  thousand  still  small  voices  I  awake, 
Strong  in  their  sweetness,  from  the  soul  to  shake 

The  mantle  of  its  rest. 

I  bring  them  from  the  pat  : 
From  true  hearts  broken,  gentle  spirits  torn, 
From  crushed  affections,  which,  tho'  long  o'erborne, 

Make  their  tone  heard  at  last. 

I  bring  them  from  the  tomb : 
O'er  the  sad  couch  of  late  repentant  love 
They  pass  —  though  low  as  murmurs  of  a  dove — 

Like  trumpets  through  the  gloom. 

I  come  with  all  my  train : 

Who  calls  me  lonely  1  —  Hosts  around  me  tread, 
The  intensely  bright,  the  beautiful,  the  dead 

Phantoms  of  heart  and  brain ! 

Looks  from  departed  eyes, 

These  are  my  lightnings!  —  filled  with  anguish  vain, 
Or  tenderness  too  piercing  to  sustain, 

They  smite  with  agonies. 

I,  that  with  soft  control 

Shut  the  dim  violet,  hush  the  woodland  song, 
I  am  the  avenging  one! —  the  arm'd,  the  strong, 

The  searcher  of  the  soul. 

I,  that  shower  dewy  light 

Through  slumbering  leaves,bring  storms,the  tempest-birth 
Of  memory,  thought,  remorse:  Be  holy,  Earth! 

I  am  the  solemn  Night! 


MRS.   HEMANS,  43 


THE  DESERTED   HOUSE. 

GLOOM  is  upon  thy  lonely  hearth, 

0  silent  house!  once  fill'd  wit  i  mirth  ? 
Sorrow  is  in  the  breezy  sound 

Of  thy  tall  poplars,  whispering  round. 

The  shadow  of  departed  hours 
Hangs  dim  upon  thine  early  flowers ; 
Even  in  thy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude- 

Fair  art  thou,  fair  to  stranger's  gaze, 
Mine  own  sweet  home  of  other  days ! 
My  children's  birth-place  !  yet  for  me, 
It  is  too  much  to  look  on  thee !. 

Too  much!  for  all  about  thee  spread- — 

1  feel  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  almost  linger  for  the  feet 

That  never  more  my  steps  shall  meet. 

The  looks,  the  smiles,  all  vanish'd  now, 
Follow  me  where  thy  roses  blow; 
The  echoes  of  kind  household  words 
Are  with  me  midst  thy  singing  birds. 

Till  my  heart  dies,  it  dies  away 
In  yearnings  for  what  might  not  stay  j 
For  lover  which  ne'er  deceiv'd  my  trust, 
For  all  which  went  with  "dust  to  dust!" 

What  now  is  left  me  but  to  raise, 

From  thee,  lorn  spot !  my  spirit's  gaze,  — 


44  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

To  lift,  through  tears,  my  straining  eye 
Up  to  my  Father's  house  on  high? 

Oh,  many  are  the  mansions  there  ; 
But  not  in  one  hath  grief  a  share ! 
No  haunting  shades  from  things  gone  by 
May  there  o'ersweep  the  unchanging  sky. 

And  they  are  there,  whose  long-loved  mien 
In  earthly  home  no  more  is  seen ; 
Whose  places,  where  they  smiling  sate, 
Are  left  unto  us  desolate. 

We  miss  them  when  the  board  is  spread ; 
We  miss  them  when  the  prayer  is  said ; 
Upon  our  dreams  their  dying  eyes 
In  still  and  mournful  fondness  rise. 

But  they  are  where  these  longings  Tain 
Trouble  no  more  the  heart  and  brain ; 
The  sadness  of  this  aching  love 
Dims  not  our  Father's  house  above. 

Ye  are  at  rest,  and  I  in  tears,* 
Ye  dwellers  of  the  immortal  spheres! 
Under  the  poplar  boughs  I  stand, 
And  mourn  the  broken  household  band. 

But  by  your,  life  of  lowly  faith, 
And  by  your  joyful  hope  in  death, 
Guide  me,  till  on  some  brighter  shore 
The  sever'd  wreath  is  bound  once  more. 

Holy  ye  were,  and  good  and  true ! 
No  change  can  cloud  my  thoughts  of  you: 
Guide  me  like  you  to  live  and  die, 
And  reach  my  Father's  house  on  high ! 

*  From  an  ancient  Hebrew  dirge,  "  Mourn  for  the  mourner,  and 
not  for  the  dead ;  for  he  is  at  rest,  and  we  in  tears." 


MRS.    HEMANS.  45 


THE  VOICE  OF  GOD. 

AMIDST  the  thrilling  leaves  Thy  voice 
At  evening's  fall  drew  near ; 

Father!  and  did  not  man  rejoice 
That  blessed  sound  to  hear? 

Did  not  his  heart  within  him  burn, 
Touch'd  by  the  solemn  tone  ? 

Not  so!  for,  never  to  return, 
Its  purity  was  gone. 

Therefore,  midst  holy  stream  and  bower, 

His  spirit  shook  with  dread, 
And  call'd  the  cedars,  in  that  hour 

To  veil  his  conscious  head. 

Oh  !  in  each  wind,  each  fountain's  flow, 

Each  whisper  of  the  shade, 
Grant  me,  my  God !  thy  voice  to  know, 

And  not  to  be  afraid. 


FRAGMENT. 

Oh,  what  is  Nature's  strength  ? — the  vacant  eye, 
By  mind  deserted,  hath  a  dread  reply  ; 
The  wild  delirious  laug  te    of  despair, 
The  mirth  of  frenzy — seek  an  answer  therej 
Weep  not,  sad  moralist,  o'er  desert  plains, 
Strew'dwith  the  wrecks  of  grandeur,  mould'ring  fanes, 
Arches  of  triumphs  long  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
And  regal  cities — now  the  serpent's  own ; — 
Earth  has  more  dreadful  ruins— one  lost  mind, 
Whose  star  is  quenched,  hath  lessons  for  mankind 
Of  deeper  import  than  each  prostrate  dome, 
Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Rome. 


46  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN. 

"  Women  act  their  parts 

When  they  do  make  their  orderM  houses  know  them. 

Men  must  be  busy  out  of  doors,  must  stir 

The] city;  yea,  make  the  great  world  aware 

That  they  are  in  it ;  for  the  mastery 

Of  which  they  race  and  wrestle."— Snowies. 

WARRIOR!  whose  image  on  thy  tomb, 

With  shield  and  crested  head, 
Sleeps  proudly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  stain'd  window  shed,  — 
The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Hare  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet  through  a  cloud  of  years  I  trace 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done. 

A  banner  from  its  flashing  spear 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  fight ; 
A  war-cry  ringing  far  and  clear, 

And  strong  to  turn  the  llijht ; 
An  arm  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  haughty  heart  and  kingly  glance  — 

Chief!  were  not  these  things  thine? 

A  lofty  place,  where  leaders  sate, 

Around  the  council  board  ; 
In  festive  halls  a  chair  of  state, 

When  the  blood-red  wine  was  pour'd; 
A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 

From  herald,  harp,  and  bard  ; 
—  Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own 

So  hadst  thou  thy  reward ! 


MRS.  HEMANS.  47 

Woman !  whose  sculptured  form  at  rest 

By  the  armed  knight  is  laid. 
With  meek  hands  folded  o'er  thy  breast, 

In  matron  robes  array'd  ; 
What  was  thy  tale  ?  —  Oh,  gentle  mate 

Of  him  the  bold  and  free ; 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate, 

What  bard  hath  sung  of  thee  ? 

He  woo'd  a  bright  and  burning  star ; 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloom, 
The  straining  eye  that  followed  far 

His  oft  receding  plume  ; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  breeze ; 
The  pang  —  but  when  did  fame  take  heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these  ? 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours, 

Through  many  a  lonely  day, 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broider'd  flowers. 

With  spirit  far  away  ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  him 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains  ; 
Thy  watchings  till  the  torch  grew  dim,  — 

These  fiilno  minstrel  i. trains. 

A  still  sad  life  was  thine  !  —  long  years, 

With  tasks  unguerdon'd  fraught, 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  tears, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought; 
Prayers  at  the  cross  in  fervor  pour'd, 

Alms  to  the  pilgrims  given ; 
O  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord, 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  1 


48  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


GERTRUDE. 

The"  Baron  Von  der  Wart,  accused,  though  it  is  believed  unjust- 
ly, as  an  accomplice  in  the  assassination  of  the  Emperor  Albert, 
was  bound  alive  on  the  wheel,  and  attended  by  his  wife  Gertrude, 
throughout  his  last  agonizing  h  JUTS,  with  the  most  heroic  devoted- 
ness.  Her  own  sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortunate  husband, 
are  most  affectingly  des  rib  d  in  a  letter  which  he  afterwards  ad- 
dressed to  a  female  friend,  and  which  was  published  some  years 
ago,  at  Haarlem,  in  a  book  entitled  Gertrude  Von  der  Wart,  or  Fi- 
delity unto  Death. 

Dark  lowers  oar  fate, 
And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agony 
Which  severs  thee  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fixed  and  sacred  hold.    In  thy  dark  prison-house, 
In  the  terrific  face  of  armed  law, 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee.  Joanna  BaiUic. 

HER  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  dark  eyes  raised, 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed  — 

All  that  she  loved  was  there. 
The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold. 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 

"  And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried, 

"  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so ! 
This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side  — 

Peace,  peace,  I  cannot  go. 


MRS.    HEMANS. 

Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear. 

When  death  is  on  thy  brow? 
The  world  !  what  means  it  ? — mine  is  here- 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

"  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this  ! 
And  thou,  mine  honor'd  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on ! 
We  have  the  blessed  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But,  oh  !  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek  — 
Love  !  love  !  of  mortal  agony, 

Thou,  only  thou  should'st  speak ! 

The  wind  rose  high,  —  but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear : 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  happy  bosoms  near, 
While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brow, 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft, 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low 

Had  still'd  his  heart  so  oft. 
5 


49 


50  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 
She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew, 

And  on  his  cheek  such  kisses  press'd 
As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh !  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  death  — 

And  his  worn  spirit  pass'd. 
While  e'en  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
And,  weeping,  bless'd  the  God  who  gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not  I 


THE  STRANGER'S  HEART. 

THE  stranger's  heart!  oh,  wound  it  not! 
A  yearning  anguish  is  its  lot ; 
In  the  green  shadow  of  thy  tree 
The  stranger  finds  no  rest  with  thee. 

Thou  think'st  the  vine's  low  rustling  leaves 
Glad  music  round  thy  household  eaves ; 
To  him  that  sound  hath  sorrow's  tone  — 
The  stranger's  heart  is  with  his  own. 

Thou  think'st  thy  children's  laughing  play 
A  lovely  sight  at  fall  of  day ; 
Then  are  the  stranger's  thoughts  opprest  — 
His  mother's  voice  comes  o'er  his  breast. 

Thou  think'st  it  sweet  when  friend  with  friend 
Beneath  one  roof  in  prayer  may  blend : 


MRS.  HEMANS.  51 

Then  doth  the  stranger's  eye  grow  dim  — 
Far,  far  are  those  who  prayed  with  him. 

Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage  land  — 
The  voices  of  thy  kindred  band : — 
Oh,  midst  them  all  when  blest  thou  art, 
Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart ! 


EVENING  PRAYER  AT  A  GIRL'S  SCHOOL. 

Now  in  thy  youth  beseech  of  Him, 

Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not, 
That  his  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim, 

And  his.  love  be  unforgot; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days  will  be 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thee. 

Bernard  Barton. 

HUSH  !  —  't  is  a  holy  hour  —  the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 

A  faint  and  starry  radiance  through  the  gloom. 
And  the  sweet  stillness  down  on  fair  young  heads, 

With  all  their  clust'ring  locks,  untouched  by  care, 

And  bowed,  as  flowers  are  bowed  with  night,  in  prayer. 

Gaze  on — 'tis  lovely !  —  Childhood's  lip  and  cheek, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of_thought  — 

Gaze  —  yet  what  seest  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought  ? 

Thou  seest  what  Grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 

What  Death  must  fashion  for  Eternity. 

Oh!  joyous  creatures!  that  will  sink  to  rest 
Lightly,  when  these  pure  orisons  are  done, 


52  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 

As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  oppress'd, 

Mid  the  dim  folded  leaves  at  set  of  sun  — 
Lift  up  your  hearts !  though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  th'  untroubled  springs 
Of  Hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wings 
Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread  — 

Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low, 

Is  woman's  tenderness  —  how  soon  her  woe ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you  —  silent  tears  to  weep, 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affections  deep, 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds  —  a  wasted  shower  ! 
And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship  —  therefore  pray  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you  —  to  be  found  untir'd, 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain: 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 

And  oh  !  to  love  through  all  things  —  therefore  pray  ! 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time, 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light, 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight ! 

Earth  will  forsake  —  oh  !  happy  to  have  given 

Th'  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven* 


MRS.  HEMANS.  53 


WASHINGTON'S  STATUE. 

(SENT  FROM  ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA.) 

YES  !  rear  thy  guardian  Hero's  form 
On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  Western  world  ! 
A  watcher  through  each  sign  of  storm, 

O'er  Freedom's  flag  unfurled. 

There,  as  before  a  shrine  to  bow, 
Bid  thy  true  sons  their  children  lead  ; 
The  language  of  that  noble  brow 

For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 

The  spirit  reared  in  patriot  fight, 

The  Virtue  born  of  Home  and  Hearth, 

There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 

Shall  pour  o'er  chainless  earth. 

And  let  the  work  of  England's  hand, 
Sent  through  the  blast  and  surges'  roar, 
So  girt  with  tranquil  glory,  stand 

For  ages  on  thy  shore  t 

Such  through  all  times  the  greetings  be, 
That  with  the  Atlantic  billow  sweep ! 
Telling  the  Mighty  and  the  Free 

Of  Brothers  o'er  the  Deep. 
5* 


54  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING. 

I  COME,  I  come  !  ye  have  call'd  me  long; 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  liijht  and  song1. 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose-stars  iu  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves,  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  south,  and  the  chestnut  flowers 
By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 
Are  veil'd  with  wraiths  on  Italian  plains; 
—  But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 
To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb ! 

I  have  look'd  o'er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  north, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth  ; 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  rein-deer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  lias  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright,  where  my  foot  hath  been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing  sigh, 
And  call'd  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky  ; 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note,  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the  chain ; 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 


MRS.  HEMANS.  55 

They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows. 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest-boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves ! 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness,  come  ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose  lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly  ! 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine,  —  I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen  ! 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  silent  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  ! 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye  !  —  ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There  is  something  bright  from  your  features  pass'd ! 
There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye, 
Which  speaks  of  the  world  where  the  flowers  must  die  ! 
—  Ye  smile  !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet  — 
Oh !  what  have  ye  look'd  on  since  last  we  met? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed  !  —  and  I  see  not  here 
All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanished  year ; 
There  were  graceful  heads  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  toss'd  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light, 
There  were  eyes,  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay  ! 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head, 
As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread ; 
There  were  voices  that  rung  through  the  sapphire  sky, 
And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality  ! 


56  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Are  they  gone  ?  is  their  mirth  from  [the  mountains  pass'd  ? 
— Ye  have  look'd  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last! 

I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now  ; 
Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth's  embrace, 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race  ; 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown, 
They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down! 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the  young  and  fair ; 
Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! 
—  But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight, 
I  shall  find  them  there  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Death  'midst  the  bloom  of  the  morn  may  dwell : 
I  tarry  no  longer —  farewell,  farewejl ! 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne  ; 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn  ! 

For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore; 

Ye  are  mark'd  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 

I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 

And  the  flowers  are  not  death's  —  fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 


MRS.    HEMANS.  57 


THE  HEBREW  MOTHER. 

THE  moon  was  in  rich  bloom  on  Sharon's  plain, 
When  a  young  mother,  with  her  first-born,  thence 
Went  up  to  Zion;  for  the  boy  was  vow'd 
Unto  the  Temple  service:  — by  the  hand 
She  led  him,  and  her  silent  soul,  the  while, 
Oft  as  the  dewy  laughter  of  his  eye 
Met  her  sweet  serious  glance,  rejoiced  to  think 
That  aught  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  was  hers, 
To  bring  before  her  God.     So  pass'd  they  on, 
O'er  Judah's  hills ;  and  wheresoe'er  the  leaves 
Of  the  broad  sycamore  made  sounds  at  noon, 
Like  lulling  rain-drops,  or  the  olive  boughs, 
With  their  cool  dimness,  cross'd  the  sultry  blue 
Of  Syria's  heaven,  she  paused  that  he  might  rest; 
Yet  from  her  own  meek  eyelids  chased  the  sleep 
That  weigh'd  their  dark  fringe  down,  to  sit  and  watch 
The  crimson  deepening  o'er  his  cheek's  repose, 
As  at  a  red  flower's  heart.     And  where  a  fount 
Lay  like  a  twilight  star  'midst  palmy  shades, 
Making  its  bank  green  gems  along  the  wild, 
*  There,  too,  she  linger'd,  from  the  diamond  wave 
Drawing  bright  water  for  his  rosy  lips, 
And  softly  parting  clusters  of  jet  curls 
To  bathe  his  brow.     At  last  the  Fane  was  reach'd, 
The  Earth's  One  Sanctuary  —  and  rapture  hush'd 
Her  bosom,  as  before  her,  through  the  day, 
It  rose,  a  mountain  of  white  marble,  steep'd 
In  light,  like  floating  gold.     But  when  that  hour 
Waned  to  the  farewell  moment,  when  the  boy 
Lifted,  through  rainbow-gleaming  tears,  his  eye 


58  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

Beseechingly  to  hers,  and  half  in  fear 
Turn'd  from  the  white-rohed  priest,  and  round  her  arm 
Clung  even  as  joy  clings  —  the  deep  spring-tide 
Of  nature  then  swell'd  high,  and  o'er  her  child 
Bending,  her  soul  broke  forth  in  mingled  sounds 
Of  weeping  and  sad  song. —  "  Alas ! "  she  cried, 

"  Alas !  my  boy,  thy  gentle  grasp  is  on  me ; 
The  bright  tears  quiver  in  thy  pleading  eyes, 

And  now  fond  thoughts  arise, 
And  silver  cords  again  to  earth  have  won  me  ; 
And  like  a  vine  thou  claspest  my  full  heart  — 

How  shall  I  hence  depart? 

"  How  the  lone  paths  retrace  where  thou  wert  playing 
So  late,  along  the  mountains,  at  my  side  ? 

And  I,  in  joyous  pride, 

By  every  place  of  flowers  my  course  delaying, 
Wove,  e'en  as  pearls,  the  lilies  round  thy  hair, 

Beholding  thee  so  fair ! 

"  And  oh  !  the  home  whence  thy  bright  smile  hath  parted, 
Will  it  not  seem  as  if  the  sunny  day 

Turn'd  from  its  door  away  ? 

While  through  its  chambers  wandering  weary-hearted, 
I  languish  for  thy  voice,  which  past  me  still, 

Went  like  a  singing  rill. 

"  Under  the  palm-trees  thou  no  more  shalt  meet  me, 
When  from  the  fount  at  evening  I  return, 

With  the  full  water-urn ; 

Nor  will  thy  sleep's  low  dove-like  breathings  greet  me, 
As  'midst  the  silence  of  the  stars  I  wake, 

And  watch  for  thy  dear  sake. 


MRS.  HEMANS.  59 

"And  thou,  will  slumber's  dewy  cloud  fall  round  thee, 
Without  thy  mother's  hand  to  smooth  thy  bed  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  vainly  spread 

Thine  arms,  when  darkness  as  a  veil  hath  wound  thee, 
To  fold  my  neck,  and  lift  up,  in  thy  fear, 

A  cry  which  none  shall  hear  ? 

"  What  have  I  said,  my  child  ?  —  Will  He  not  hear  thee, 
Who  the  young  ravens  heareth  from  their  nest  ? 

Shall  he  not  guard  thy  rest, 
And  in  the  hush  of  holy  midnight  near  thee, 
Breathe  o'er  thy  soul,  and  fill  its  dreams  with  joy?  — 

Thou  shalt  sleep  soft,  my  boy. 

"  I  give  thee  to  thy  God  —  the  God  that  gave  thee, 
A  well-spring  of  deep  gladness  to  my  heart ! 

And  precious  as  thou  art, 

And  pure  as  dew  of  Hermon,  He  shall  have  thee, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  undefiled  ! 

And  thou  shalt  be  His  child. 

"  Therefore,  farewell  !  —  I  go,  my  soul  may  fail  me, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 

Yearning  for  thy  sweet  looks,  — 
But  thou,  my  first-born,  droop  not,  nor  bewail  me  ; 
Thou  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  shalt  dwell, 

The  Rock  of  Strength.  —  Farewell  I 


SABBATH  SONNET. 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending 
Through  England's  primrose  meadow-paths  their  way 
Toward  spire  and  tower,  'midst  shadowy  elms  ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day ! 


60  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  gray, 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth  j  and  hamlets  low, 
With  whose  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  winds  play, 
Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  free  vernal  stream.  —  I  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways,  — to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound;  —  yet  oh,  my  God  !  I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  fill'd 
My  chasten'd  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  still'd 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  PSALMS.  * 

NOBLY  thy  song,  O  minstrel  !  rush'd  to  meet 
Th'  Eternal  on  the  pathway  of  the  blast, 
With  darkness  round  him  as  a  mantle  cast, 

And  cherubim  to  waft  his  flying  seat. 

Amidst  the  hills  that  smoked  beneath  his  feet, 
With  trumpet  voice  thy  spirit  called  aloud, 

And  bade  the  trembling  rocks  his  name  repeat, 
And  the  bent  cedars,  and  the  bursting  cloud  ; 

But  far  more  gloriously  to  earth  made  known, 

By  that  high  strain,  than  by  the  thunder's  tone, 
Than  flashing  torrents,  or  the  ocean's  roll ; 

Jehovah  spoke  through  the  inbreathing  fire, 

Nature's  vast  realms  forever  to  inspire, 
With  the  deep  worship  of  a  living  soul. 

Dublin,  April,  1835. 

*  This  and  the  preceding,  are  the  two  last  strains,  the  dying 
strains  of  this  sweet  Poetess.  Truly  her  mind  seemed  breathing 
inspired  notes,  while  her  pure  spirit  was  stealing  gently  away  to 
join  the  angelic  choir  in  that  "better  land,"  where  "  sorrow  and 
death  may  not  enter." 


JOANNA     BAILLIE.* 


IF  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Hemans  is  best  characterized  by 
the  " Glorious  Rose,"  this  "sister  of  Shakspeare,"  as  she 
has  been  significantly  styled,  may  be  likened  to  the  splen- 
did Aloe  flower,  that  opens  but  once  in  a  century;  so  rare, 
indeed,  that  it  is  regarded  rather  as  a  wonder,  than  a  bless- 
ing. 

The  power  of  Miss  Baillie's  genius  seems  concentrated 
in  one  burning  ray  —  the  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 
She  has  illustrated  this  knowledge,  with  the  cool  judgment 
of  the  philosopher,  and  the  pure  warm  feelings  of  the  wo- 
man, in  her  celebrated  Plays  on  the  Passions.  We  have 
sometimes  doubted,  whether,  in  selecting  the  Drama  as  her 
path  of  literature,  she  judged  wisely ;  we  have  thought 
that  as  an  essayist  or  a  novelist  she  might  have  made  her 
great  talents  more  effective  in  that  improvement  of  society 
which  she  seems  to  have  had  so  deeply  at  heart,  and  have 
won  for  herself,  if  not  so  bright  a  wreath  of  fame,  a  more 
extensive  and  more  popular  influence. 

In  dramatic  composition,  however,  Joanna  Baillie  is  un- 
rivalled by  any  female  writer;  and  she  is  the  only  woman 

*  There  is  an  American  edition  of  the  "  complete  poetical  works 
of  Miss  Baillie,"  published  at  Philadelphia,  in  one  large  elegant 
rolume.  This,  however,  does  not  comprise  her  last  "  Plays  on  the 
Passions." 

6 


62  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

whose  genius,  as  displayed  in  her  works,  appears  compe- 
tent to  the  production  of  an  Epic  poem.  Would  that  she 
had  attempted  this. 

In  the  portraiture  of  female  characters,  and  the  exhibi- 
tion of  feminine  virtues,  she  is  very  happy  ;  and  we  regret 
that  in  the  limited  space  to  which  our  selections  must  be 
confined,  we  cannot  introduce  those  beautiful  creations  of 
her  fancy,  Jane  de  Montfort,  Valeria  and  Helen. 

Miss  Baillie  began  her  literary  career  in  early  life,  and 
has  pursued  it  with  unremitted  ardor.  She  bestows  great 
care  on  the  revision  of  her  productions,  thus  setting  an  ex- 
cellent example  of  patience  and  industry  to  her  sex.  She 
is  now  no  longer  young,  but  is  still  actively  engaged  in  her 
literary  pursuits.  During  the  past  year,  she  has  given  to 
the  world  another  volume  of  "Plays  on  the  Passions," 
which  is  highly  commended  by  the  English  critics 

Respecting  the  private  character  of  this  extraordinary 
woman,  we  have  but  few  incidents  to  communicate.  The 
sacred  cabinet  of  domestic  life  may  not  be  opened,  till 
death  has  sealed  the  record  completed.  She  is  sister  of  the 
celebrated  Dr.  Baillie,  and  has  passed  much  of  her  time  in 
his  family.  Her  personal  appearance  is  thus  described  by 
an  American  gentleman,  who  visited  her  in,  '27 :  — 

li  Joanna  Baillie  is  a  small  woman,  very  erect,  easy  and 
natural,  with  a  remarkable  fine  face.  In  manner  she  is 
self-possessed,  and  very  gentle ;  you  never  think  of  her 
age,  and  only  wonder,  after  you  have  come  away,  how 
it  should  happen  that  you  did  not  think  of  it.  I  was  told 
by  those  who  knew  her  that  she  was  over  seventy  —  yet  I 
could  hardly  believe  them.  She  appeared  about  55  or  60. 
Her  gray  hair  was  parted  carefully  and  smoothly  over  her 
forehead,  and  her  general  air  was  that  of  something  very  in- 
telligent, tranquil,  spiritualized  and  quakerish.  I  thought 
her  very  amiable,  and  in  the  overflowing  of  her  affectionate 
veneration  for  her  brother,  Dr.  Baillie,  I  detected  the  germ 
of  that  extraordinary  tragedy,  de  Montfort." 


JOANNA  BAILLIE:  63 


SKETCHES    FROM    THE    LEGEND    OF    LADY 
GRISELD  BAILLIK 

WHEN,  sapient,  dauntless,  strong  heroic  man, 

Our  Dusy  thoughts  thy  noble  nature  scan. 

Whose  active  mind,  its  hidden  cell  within, 

Frames  that  from  which  the  mightiest  works  begin; 

Whose  secret  thoughts  are  light  to  ages  lending, 

Whose  potent  arm  is  right  and  life  defending 

For  helpless  jthousands,  all  on  one  high  soul  depending:  — 

We  pause  delighted  with  the  fair  survey^ 

And  haply  in  our  wistful  musings  say, 

What  mate  to  malch  this  noble  work  of  heaven. 

Hath  the  all  wise  and  mighty  Master  given  ? 

One  gifted  like  himself,  whose  head  devises 

High  things,  whose  soul  at  sound  of  battle  rises ; 

Who  with  glaiv'd  hand  will  thro'  armed  squadrons  ride, 

And,  death  confronting,  combat  by  his  side ; 

Will  share  with  equal  wisdom  grave  debate, 

And  all  the  cares  of  chieftain,  kingly  state? 

Ay,  such,  I  trow,  in  female  form  hath  been 

Of  olden  times,  and  may  again  be  seen. 

When  cares  of  empire,  or  strong  impulse  swell 

The  generous  breast,  and  to  high  deeds  impel ; 

For  who  can  these  as  meaner  times  upbraid^ 

Who  think  of  Saragossa's  valiant  maid  1 

But  she  of  gentle  nature,  softer,  dearer, 

Of  daily  life  the  active  kindly  cheerer ; 

With  generous  bosom,  age,  or  childhood  shielding. 

And  in  the  storms  of  life  tho'  moved,  unyielding ; 

Strength  in  her  gentleness,  hope  in  her  sorrow, 

Whose  darkest  hours  some  ray  of  brightness  borrow 

From  better  days  to  come,  whose  meek  devotion 


64  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

Calms  every  wayward  passion's  wild  commotion ; 

In  want  and  suffering,  soothing,  useful,  sprightly. 

Bearing  the  press  of  evil  hap  so  lightly, 

Till  evil's  self  seems  its  strong  hold  betraying 

To  the  sweet  witch'ry  of  such  winsome  playing ; 

Bold  from  affection,  if  by  nature  fearful, 

With  varying  brow,  sad,  tender,  anxious,  cheerful,  — 

This  is  meet  partner  for  the  loftiest  mind, 

With  crown  or  helmet  graced,  —  yea,  this  is  womankind  ! 

Come  ye  whose  grateful  memory  retains 

Dear  recollection  of  her  tender  pains, 

To  whom  your  oft-conn'd  lesson,  daily  said, 

With  kiss  and  cheering  praises  was  repaid ; 

To  gain  whose  smile,  to  shun  whose  mild  rebuke, 

Your  irksome  task  was  learned  in  silent  nook, 

Tho'  truant  thoughts  the  while,  your  lot  exchanging 

With  freer  elves,  were  wood  and  meadow  ranging  j  — 

And  ye,  who  best  the  faithful  virtues  know, 

Of  a  link'd  partner,  tried  in  weal  and  woe, 

Like  the  slight  willow,  now  aloft,  now  bending, 

But,  still  unbroken,  with  the  blast  contending, 

Whose  very  look  call'd  virtuous  vigor  forth, 

Compelling  you  to  match  her  noble  worth;  — 

And  ye  who  in  a  sister's  modest  praise, 

Peel  manly  pride,  and  think  of  other  days, 

Pleased  that  the  playmate  of  your  native  home 

Hath  in  her  prime  an  honored  name  become  ;  — 

And  ye,  who  in  a  duteous  child  have  known 

A  daughter,  help-mate,  sister,  blent  in  one, 

From  whose  dear  hand  which  to  no  hireling  leaves 

Its  task  of  love,  your  age  sweet  aid  receives  ; 

Who  reckless  marks  youths'  waning  faded  hue, 

And  thinks  her  bloom  well  spent,  when  spent  for  you  ;  — 

Come  all,  whose  thoughts  such  dear  remembrance  bear,. 

And  to  my  short  and  faithful  lay  give  ear. 


JOANNA   BAILLIE.  65 


THE    SISTER. 

THERE  is  a  sight  all  hearts  beguiling  — 

A  youthful  mother  to  her  infant  smiling, 

Who  with  spread  arms  and  dancing  feet, 

And  cooing  voice,  returns  its  answer  sweet. 

Who  does  not  love  to  see  the  grandame  mild, 

Lesson  with  yearning  looks  the  list'ning  child  ? 

But '  tis  a  thing  of  saintlier  nature, 

Amidst  her  friends  of  pigmy  stature, 

To  see  the  maid  in  youth's  fair  bloom, 

A  guardian  sister's  charge  assume, 

And,  like  a  touch  of  angel's  bliss 

Receive  from  each  its  grateful  kiss.  — 

To  see  them,  when  their  hour  of  love  is  past, 

Aside  their  grave  demeanor  cast; 

With  her  in  mimic  war  they  wrestle  ; 

Beneath  her  twisted  robe  they  nestle  ; 

Upon  her  glowing  cheek  they  revel, 

Low  bended  to  their  tiny  level ; 

While  oft,  her  lovely  neck  bestriding, 

Crows  some  arch  imp,  like  huntsman  riding. 

This   is  a  sight  the  coldest  heart  may  feel, 

To  make  down  rugged  cheeks  the  kindly  tear  to  steal. 


THE    WIPE. 

THEIR  long-tried  faith  in  honor  plighted, 
They  were  a  pair  by  heaven  united, 
Whose  wedded  love,  thro'  lengthened  years, 
The  trace  of  early  fondness  wears. 
Her  heart  first  guessed  his  doubtful  choice, 
Her  ear  first  caught  his  distant  voice, 
And  from  afar  her  wistful  eye 
Would  first  his  graceful  form  descry. 
6* 


66  THE  LADIES'  WREATH 

Even  when  he  hied  him  forth  to  meet 
The  open  air  in  lawn  or  street. 

She  to  her  casement  went, 
And  after  him,  with  smile  so  sweet, 

Her  look  of  blessing  sent. 
The  heart's  affection  —  secret  thing! 
Is  like  the  cleft-rock's  ceaseless  springy 
Which  free  and  independent  flows 
Of  summer  rains  or  winter  snows. 
The  fox-glove  from  its  side  may  fall, 

The  heath-bloom  fade,  or  moss  flower  white, 
But  still  its  runlet,  bright  tho'  small, 

Will  issue  sweetly  to  the  light. 


THE  WIDOW.. 

WITH  her  and  her  good  lord,  who  still 

Sweet  union  held  of  mated  will, 

Years  passed  away  with  lightsome  speed; 

But  oh  !  their  bands  of  bliss  at  length  were  riven. 
And  she  was  clothed  in  widow's  sable  weed, 

—  Submitting  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 
And  then  a  prosperous  race  of  children  good 
And  tender,  round  their  noble  mother  stood, 
And  she  the  while,  cheered  with  their  pious  love, 
Waited  her  welcome  summons  from  above. 
But  whatsoe'er  the  weal  or  woe 
That  Heaven  across  her  lot  might  throw, 
Full  well  her  Christian  spirit  knew 
Its  path  of  virtue  straight  and  true. 
Good,  tender,  generous,  firm,  and  sage, 
Through  grief  and  gladness,  shade  and  sheen, 
As  fortune  changed  life's  motley  scene, 
Thus  passed  she  on  to  reverend  age, 
And  when  the  heavenly  summons  came, 


JOANNA   BAILLIE.  67 

Her  spirit  from  its  mortal  frame, 

And  weight  of  mortal  cares  to  free. 

It  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see, 

The  parting  saint  her  state  of  honor  keeping, 

In  gifted,  dauntless  faith,  whilst  round  her,  weeping, 

Her  children's  children  mourned  on  bended  knee. 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

Is  there  a  man,  that  from  some  lofty  steep, 

Views  in  his  wide  survey  the  boundless  deep, 

When  its  vast  waters,  lined  with  sun  and  shade, 

Wave  beyond  wave,  in  seried  distance,  fade 

To  the  pale  sky;  —  or  views  it,  dimly  seen, 

The  shifting  screens  of  drifted  mist  between, 

As  the  huge  cloud  dilates  its  sable  form, 

When  grandly  curtainM  by  th*  approaching  storm,— 

Who  feels  not  his  aw'd  soul  with  wonder  rise 

To  Him  whose  power  created  sea  and  skies, 

Mountains  and  deserts,  giving  to  the  sight 

The  wonders  of  the  day  and  of  the  night? 

But  let  some  fleet  be  seen  in  warlike  pride, 

Whose  stately  ships  the  restless  billows  ride, 

While  each,  with  lofty  masts  and  brightening  sheen 

Of  fair  spread  sails,  moves  like  a  vested  Queen ; — 

Or  rather,  be  some  distant  bark,  astray, 

Seen  like  a  pilgrim  on  his  lonely  way, 

Holding  its  steady  course  from  port  and  shore, 

A  form  distinct,  a  speck,  and  seen  no  more, — 

How  doth  the  pride,  the  sympathy,  the  flame, 

Of  human  feeling  stir  his  thrilling  frame? 

"O  Thou!  whose  mandate  dust  inert  obey'd, 

"  What  is  this  creature  man  whom  thou  hast  made  ? 


68  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

On  Palos'  shore,  whose  crowded  strand 
Bore  priests  and  nobles  of  the  land, 
And  rustic  hinds  and  townsmen  trim, 
And  harness'd  soldiers  stern  and  grim, 
And  lowly  maids  and  dames  of  pride, 
And  infants  by  their  mother's  side, — 
The  boldest  Seaman  stood  that  e'er 
Did  bark  or  ship  through  tempest  steer ; 
And  wise  as  bold,  and  good  as  wise  ; 
The  magnet  of  a  thousand  eyes, 
That  on  his  form  and  features  cast, 
His  noble  mien  and  simple  guise, 
In  wonder  seem'd  to  look  their  last. 
A  form  which  conscious  worth  is  gracing, 
A  face  where  hope,  the  lines  effacing, 
Of  thought  and  care,  bestow'd  in  truth, 
To  the  quick  eyes'  imperfect  tracing 
The  look  and  air  of  youth. 

Who,  in  his  lofty  gait,  and  high 

Expression  of  th'  enlighten'd  eye, 

Had  recogniz'd,  in  that  bright  hour, 

The  disappointed  suppliant  of  dull  power, 

Who  had  in  vain  of  states  and  kings  desired 

The  pittance  for  his  vast  emprise  required?  — 

The  patient  sage,  who,  by  his  lamp's  faint  light, 

O'er  chart  and  map  spent  the  long  silent  night?  — 

The  man  who  meekly  fortune's  buffets  bore, 

Trusting  in  One  alone,  whom  heaven  and  earth  adore? 

Another  world  is  in  his  mind, 
Peopled  with  creatures  of  his  kind, 
With  hearts  to  feel,  with  minds  to  soar, 
Thoughts  to  consider  and  explore  ; 
Souls,  who  might  find  from  trespass  shriven, 
Virtue  on  earth  and  joy  in  heaven. 


JOANNA  BAILL1E.  69 

"  That  power  divine,  whom  storms  obey," 

(Whisper'd  his  heart,)  a  leading  star, 

Will  guide  him  on  his  blessed  way; 

Brothers  to  join  by  fate  divided  far. 

Vain  thoughts !  which  Heaven  doth  but  ordain 

In  part  to  be,  the  rest,  alas  !  how  vain  ! 

But  hath  there  liv'd  of  mortal  mould, 

Whose  fortunes  with  his  thoughts  could  hold 

An  even  race?     Earth's  greatest  son 

That  e'er  earn'd  fame,  or  empire  won, 

Hath  but  fulfill'd,  within  a  narrow  scope, 

A  stinted  portion  of  his  ample  hope. 

With  heavy  sigh  and  look  depress'd, 

The  greatest  men  will  sometimes  hear 

The  story  of  their  acts  address'd 

To  the  young  stranger's  wond'ring  ear. 

And  check  the  half-swoln  tear. 

Is  it  or  modesty  or  pride 

Which  may  not  open  praise  abide  ? 

No  ;  read  his  inward  thoughts :  they  tell, 

His  deeds  of  fame  he  prizes  well. 

But  ah !  they  in  his  fancy  stand, 

As  relics  of  a  blighted  bandr 

Who,  lost  to  man's  approving  sight, 

Have  perish'd  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

Ere  yet  the  glorious  light  of  day 

Had  glitter'd  on  their  bright  array. 

His  mightiest  feat  had  once  another, 

Of  high  imagination  born, — 

A  loftier  and  a  nobler  brother, 

From  dear  existence  torn ; 

And  she  for  those,  who  are  not,  steeps 

Her  soul  in  woe,  —  like  Rachel,  weeps. 


70  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 


THE  TOMB  OF  COLUMBUS. 

O!  WHO  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name ! 
Whilst  in  that  sound  there  is  a  charm 
The  nerve  to  brace,  the  heart  to  warm, 
As,  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead, 
The  young,  from  slothful  couch  will  start, 
And  vow,  with  lifted  hands  outspread, 
Like  them  to  act  a  noble  part  ? 

O !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name ! 
When,  but  for  those,  our  mighty  dead, 
All  ages  past,  a  blank  would  be, 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  murky  bed, — 
A  desert  bare,  a  shipless  sea? 
They  are  the  distant  objects  seen, — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

O !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name ! 
When  mem'ry  of  the  mighty  dead 
To  earth-worn  pilgrim's  wistful  eye 
The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed, 
That  point  to  immortality  ? 

A  twinkling  speck,  but  fix'd  and  bright, 

To  guide  us  thro'  the  dreary  night, 

Each  hero  shines,  and  lures  the  soul 

To  gain  the  distant  happy  goal. 

For  is  there  one  who,  musing  o'er  the  grave 

Where  lies  interr'd  the  good,  the  wise,  the  brave, 


JOANNA  BAILLIE:  71 

Can  poorly  think,  beneath  the  mould'ring  heap, 

That  noble  being  shall  forever  sleep  ? 

No;  saith  the  gen'rous  heart,  and  proudly  swells, — 

"  Tho'  his  cered  corse  lies  here,  with  God  his  spirit  dwells." 


PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 

INSENSIBLE  to  high  heroic  deeds, 

Is  there  a  spirit  clothed  in  mortal  weeds, 

Who  at  the  Patriot's  moving  story, 

Devoted  to  his  country's  good, 

Devoted  to  his  country's  glory, 

Shedding  for  freemen's  rights  his  generous  blood, — 

List'neth  not  with  breath  heaved  high, 

Q,uiv'ring  nerve,  and  glistening  eye, 

Feeling  within  a  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

That  with  the  hero's  worth  may  humble  kindred  claim? 

If  such  there  be,  still  let  him  plod 

On  the  dull  foggy  paths  of  care, 

Nor  raise  his  eyes  from  the  dank  sod 

To  view  creation  fair: 

What  boots  to  him  the  wondrous  works  of  God  ? 

His  soul  with  brutal  things  hath  ta'en  its  earthly  lair, 

*********** 

Oh  !  who  so  base  as  not  to  feel 

The  pride  of  freedom  once  enjoy'd, 

Tho'  hostile  gold  or  hostile  steel 

Have  long  that  bliss  destroy'd  ? 

The  meanest  drudge  will  sometimes  vaunt 

Of  independent  sires,  who  bore 

Names  known  to  fame  in  days  of  yore, 

'Spite  of  the  smiling  stranger's  taunt ; 

But,  recent  freedom  lost  —  what  heart 

Can  bear  the  humbling  thought  —  the  quick'ning,  mad'ning 
smart  ? 


72  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


THE  ELDEN  TREE. 

A  FEAST  was  spread  in  the  Baron's  hall, 
And  loud  was  the  merry  sound, 

As  minstrels  played  at  lady's  call, 
And  the  cup  went  sparkling  round. 

For  gentle  dames  sat  there,  I  trow, 

By  men  of  mickle  might, 
And  many  a  chief  with  dark-red  brow, 

And  many  a  burly  knight. 

Each  had  fought  in  war's  grim  ranks, 

And  some  on  the  surgy  sea, 
And  some  on  Jordan's  sacred  banks, 

For  the  cause  of  Christentie. 

But  who  thinks  now  of  blood  or  strife, 

Or  Moorish  or  Paynim  foe  ? 
Their  eyes  beam  bright  with  social  life, 

And  their  hearts  with  kindness  glow. 

****** 

Aye,  certes,  'tis  an  hour  of  glee, 
For  the  Baron  himself  doth  smile, 

And  nods  his  head  right  cheerily, 
And  quaffs  his  cup  the  while. 

What  recks  he  now  of  midnight  fear, 
Or  the  night-wind's  dismal  moan  ? 

As  it  tosses  the  boughs  of  that  Elden  Tree, 
Which  he  thinketh  so  oft  upon? 

Long  years  have  past  since  a  deed  was  done, 
By  its  doer  only  seen, 


JOANNA  BAILLIE,  73 

And  there  lives  not  a  man  beneath  the  sun, 
Who  wotteth  that  deed  hath  been. 

So  gay  was  he,  so  gay  were  all, 

They  mark'd  not  the  growing  gloom; 

Nor  wist  they  how  the  dark'ning  hall 
Lower'd  like  the  close  of  doom. 

Dull  grew  the  goblet's  sheen,  and  grim 

The  features  of  every  guest, 
And  colorless  banners  aloft  hung  dim. 

Like  the  clouds  of  the  drizzly  west. 

Hath  time  pass'd  then  so  swift  of  pace? 

Is  this  the  twilight  :grey  ? 
A  flash  of  light  pass'd  thro'  the  place, 

Like  the  glaring  noon  of  day. 

Fierce  glanced  the  momentarybl  aze 

O'er  all  the  gallant  train, 
And  each  visage  pale,  with  dazzled  gaze, 

Was  seen  and  lost  again. 

****** 

At  length,  in  the  waning  tempest's  /all, 

As  light  from  the  welkin  broke, 
A  frighten' d  man  rush'd  thro'  the  hall, 

And  words  to  the  Baron  spoke. 

"  The  thunder  hath  stricken  your  tree  so  fair, 

"  Its  roots  on  green-sward  lie,"  — 
"  What  tree  ?"  —  "  The  Elden  planted  there 

"  Some  thirty  years  gone  by." 

"And  wherefore  starest  thou  on  me  so, 

"With  a  face  so  ghastly  wild?"  — 
"  White  bones  are  found  in  the  mould  below, 

"  Like  the  bones  of  a  stripling  child." 
7 


74  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

Pale  he  became  as  the  shrouded  dead, 

And  his  eye-balls  fix'd  as  stone ; 
And  down  on  his  bosom  dropp'd  his  head, 

And  he  utter'd  a  stifled  groan. 

Then  from  the  board,  each  guest  amazed, 

Sprang  up,  and  curiously 
Upon  his  sudden  misery  gazed, 

And  wonder'd  what  might  be. 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  seneschal, 

"  I  pray  ye  stand  apart, 
"  Both  gentle  dames  and  nobles  all, 

"This  grief  is  at  his  heart. 

"Go,  call  St.  Cuthbert's  monk  with  speed, 
"  And  let  him  be  quickly  shriven, 

"  And  fetch  ye  a  leech  for  his  body's  need, 
"To  dight  him  for  earth  or  hearen." 

"No,  fetch  me  a  priest,"  the  Baron  said, 
In  a  voice  that  seem'd  uttered  with  pain ; 

And  he  shudder'd  and  shrunk,  as  he  faintly  bode 
His  noble  guests  remain. 

"  Heaven's  eye  each  secret  deed  doth  scan, 
"  Heaven's  justice  all  should  fear : 

"  What  I  confess  to  the  holy  man, 
"Both  Heaven  and  you  shall  hear." 

And  soon  St.  Cuthbert's  monk  stood  by, 

With  visage  sad  but  sweet, 
And  cast  on  the  Baron  a  piteous  eye, 

And  the  Baron  knelt  low  at  his  feet. 

"  O  Father !  I  have  done  a  deed 

"  Which  God  alone  did  know ; 
"  A  brother's  blood  these  hands  have  shed, 

"  With  many  a  fiend-like  blow : 


JOANNA   BA1LL1E.  75 

"  For  fiends  lent  strength  like  a  powerful  charm, 

"  And  my  youthful  breast  impell'd, 
"And  I  laugh'd  to  see  beneath  my  arm 

"The  sickly  stripling  quell'd. 

"  A  mattock  from  its  pit  I    ook, 

"Dug  deep  for  the  Elden  Tree, 
"And  I  tempted  the  youth  therein  to  look 

"  Some  curious  sight  to  see. 

"  The  woodmen  to  their  meal  were  gone, 

"  And  ere  they  return'd  again, 
"  I  had  planted  that  tree  with  my  strength  alone, 

"  O'er  the  body  of  the  slain. 

"  Ah  !  gladly  smiled  my  Father  then, 

"And  seldom  he  smiled  on  me, 
"  When  he  heard  that  my  skill,  like  the  skill  of  men, 

"Had  planted  the  Elden  Tree. 

"  But  where  was  his  eldest  son  so  dear, 

"  Who  nearest  his  heart  had  been? 
"  They  sought  him  far,  they  sought  him  near, 

"  But  the  boy  no  more  was  seen. 

"  And  thus  his  life  and  lands  he  lost, 

"  And  his  Father's  love  beside  : 
"  The  thought  that  ever  rankled  most 

"In  this  heart  of  secret  pride. 

"  Ah  !  could  the  partial  parent  wot 

"  The  cruel  pang  he  gives, 
"  To  the  child  neglected  and  forgot, 

"  Who  under  his  cold  eye  lives  ! 

"  His  elder  rights  did  my  envy  move, 

"  These  lands  and  their  princely  hall ; 
"  But  it  was  our  Father's  partial  love, 

"  I  envy'd  him  most  of  all." 
****** 


76  THE   LADIES'   WREATH 


TO  A  CHILD. 

WHOSE  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  cheek, 

And  curly  pate  and  merry  eye, 
And  arm  and  shoulders  round  and  sleek, 

And  soft  and  fair  ?  thou  urchin  sly  ! 

What  boots  it  who,  with  sweet  caresses, 
First  call'd  thee  his,  or  squire  or  hind?  — 

For  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes, 
Dost  now  a  friendly  play-mate  find. 

Thy  downcast  glances,  grave  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eye-lids  rise  and  fall, 
Thy  shyness,  swiftly  from  me  running, — 

'Tis  infantine  coquetry  all ! 

But  far  afield  thou  hast  not  flown, 

AVith  mocks  and  threats  half-lisp'd,  half-spoken  ; 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown, 

Of  right  good-will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle  too, 

A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging, 
To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thy  after  kindness  more  engaging. 

The  wilding  rose,  sweet  as  thyself, 
And  new-cropt  daises  are  thy  treasure : 

I'd  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf, 

To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet  for  all  thy  merry  look, 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming* 


JOANNA    BAILLIE.  77 

When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook, 
The  weary  spell  or  horn  book  thumbing. 

Well ;  let  it  be  !  thro'  weal  and  woe, 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range : 

Life  is  a  motley,  shifting  show, 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 


SELECTIONS. 

[FROM  DE  MONTFORT:  A  TRAGEDY.] 

De  Montford.  Yes,  it  is  ever  thus.     Undo  that  veil, 
And  give  thy  count'nance  to  the  cheerful  light. 
Men  now  all  soft,  and  female  beauty  scorn, 
And  mock  the  gentle  cares  which  aim  to  please. 
It  is  most  terrible  !  undo  thy  veil, 
And  think  of  him  no  more. 

Jane.  I  know  it  well,  even  to  a  proverb  grown, 
Is  lovers'  faith,  and  I  had  borne  such  slight : 
But  he,  who  has,  alas !  forsaken  me, 
Was  the  companion  of  my  early  days, 
My  cradle's  mate,  mine  infant  play-fellow. 
Within  our  op'ning  minds,  with  riper  years, 
The  love  of  praise  and  gen'rous  virtue  sprung: 
Thro'  varied  life  our  pride,  our  joys  were  one; 
At  the  same  tale  we  wept :  he  is  my  brother. 

De  Mon.  And  he  forsook  thee  ? — No,  I  dare  not  curse  him: 
My  heart  upbraids  me  with  a  crime  like  his. 

Jane.  Ah !  do  not  thus  distress  a  feeling  heart. 
All  sisters  are  not  to  the  soul  entwin'd 
With  equal  bands;  thine  has  not  watch'd  for  thee, 
Wept  for  thee,  cheer'd  thee,  shar'd  thy  weal  and  woe, 
As  I  have  done  for  him. 
7* 


78  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

De  A/on,  (eagerly.)  Ah!  has  she  not? 
By  heav'n!  the  sum  of  all  thy  kindly  deeds, 
Were  but  as  chaff  pois'd  against  massy  gold, 
Compar'd  to  that  which  I  do  owe  her  love. 
Oh  pardon  me !  I  mean  not  to  offend  — 
I  am  too  warm  —  but  she  of  whom  I  speak 
Is  the  dear  sister  of  my  earliest  love ; 
In  noble,  virtuous  worth  to  none  a  second: 
And  tho'  behind  those  sable  folds  were  hid 
As  fair  a  face  as  ever  woman  own'd, 
Still  would  I  say  she  is  as  fair  as  thou. 
How  oft  amidst  the  beauty-blazing  throng, 
I've  proudly  to  th'  inquiring  stranger  told 
Her  name  and  lineage  !  yet  within  her  house, 
The  virgin  mother  of  an  orphan  race, 
Her  dying  parents  left,  this  noble  woman 
Did,  like  a  Roman  matron,  proudly  sit, 
Despising  all  the  blandishments  of  love ; 
Whilst  many  a  youth  his  hopeless  love  coneeal'd, 
Or  humbly  distant,  woo'd  her  like  a  queen. 
Forgive,  I  pray  you  !  O  forgive  this  boasting ; 
In  faith !  I  mean  you  no  discourtesy. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

[TROM  HENRIQCEZ  :  A  TRAGEDY.] 

Antonio.  O  blessed  words !  my  dear,  my  generous  love 
My  heart  throbs  at  the  thought,  but  cannot  thank  thee. 
And  thou  wilt  follow  me  and  share  my  fortune, 
Or  good  or  ill ! 

Ah  !  what  of  good  can  with  a  skulking  out-law 
In  his  far  wanderings,  or  his  secret  haunts, 
E'er  be  ?  O  no !  thou  shal  /  rot  follow  me. 


JOANNA    BAIL  LIE.  79 

/ 

Mencia.  Good  may  be  found  for  faithful,  virtuous  love, 
la  every  spot ;  and  for  the  wand'ring  out-law, 
The  very  sweetest  nooks  o'  the  earth  are  his. 
And  be  his  passing  home  the  goatherd's  shed, 
The  woodman's  branchy  hut,  or  fishers'  cove, 
Whose  pebbly  threshold  by  the  rippling  tide 
Is  softly  washed,  he  may  contented  live, 
Ay,  thankfully  ;  fed  like  the  fowls  of  heaven 
With  daily  food  sent  by  a  Father's  hand. 

Ant.  Thou  shalt  not  follow  me,  nor  will  I  fly. 
Sever'd  from  thee  I  will  not  live,  sweet  love ; 
Nor  shalt  thou  be  the  mate  of  one  disgraced, 
And  by  the  good  disowned.     Here  I'll  remain, 
And  Heaven  will  work  for  me  a  fair  deliverance. 
DESPAIR. 

Henriquez,    The  morn  !    and  what  have  I  to  do  with 

morn? 

The  redd'ning  sky,  the  smoking  camp,  the  stir 
Of  tented  sleepers  rousing  to  the  call, 
The  snorting  steed,  in  harness  newly  dight, 
Did  please,  my  fancy  once.     Ay,  and  the  sweetness 
Of  my  still  native  woods,  when  through  the  mist, 
They  showed  at  early  dawn  their  stately  oaks, 
Whose  dark'ning  forms  did  gradually  appear 
Like  slow  approaching  friends,  known  doubtfully.. 
These  pleased  me  once  in  better  days;  but  now 
My  very  soul  within  me  is  abhorrent 
Of  every  pleasant  thing  ;  and  that  which  cheers 
The  stirring  soldier  or  the  waking  hind, 
That  which  the  traveller  blesses,  and  the  child 
Greets  with  a  shout  of  joy,  as  from  the  door 
Of  his  pent  cot  he  issues  to  the  air, 
Does  but  increase  my  misery. — 
I  loathe  the  light  of  heaven :  let  the  night, 
The  hideous,  unblessed  night,  close  o'er  me  now, 
And  close  forever !, 


HAN  \  AH   31  ORE.* 


THE  long  and  brilliant  literary  career  of  Mrs.  More  has 
closed,  and  her  "  Life,"  and  "  Works,"  are  the  invaluable 
possession  of  the  Christian  public.  She  needs  no  eulogism 
—  she  has  built  her  own  monument! 

Probably  no  woman  ever  did  so  much  to  promote  the 
cause  of  moral  and  social  improvement,  among  all  classes 
of  people,  as  this  excellent  lady  has  done;  certainly  no  one 
rvrr  more  consistently  subserved  the  best  interests  of  her 
own  sex. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  her  poetry  that  the  high  character 
of  her  mind  is  displayed  to  the  greatest  advantage.  She 
possessed  more  talent  than  genius,  more  judgment  than 
imagination;  and  though  her  poetry  is  always  respectable, 
and  in  its  sentiment  elevated,  yet  it  seldom  rises  to  the 
lofty  sublimity  which  astonishes  the  reader,  as  it  were, 
with  the  opening  of  a  new  world  of  beauty  and  bold  imag- 
ery —  nor  does  it  exhibit  the  brilliancy  or  breathe  the  pathos 
which  takes  captive  the  heart  and  fancy.  It  is  good,  in  ev- 
ery quality,  and  seldom  merits  a  higher  epithet. 

But  Mrs.  More  did  not  make  poetry  her  pursuit.  She 
summoned  the  muses  to  her  aid,  chiefly  to  promote  some 

*  Mrs.  More's  writings  have  been  published  in  a  variety  of  forms. 
The  best  American  edition  is  that  of  the  Harpers',  comprising  her 
" Life  and  Correspondence, "and  all  her  "  Literary  Works*" 


HANNAH   MORE.  81 

useful  or  benevolent  object  in  which  she  was  engaged;  — 
"  The  Search  after  Happiness,"  for  instance,  was  written 
for  the  benefit  of  the  young  ladies  at  her  sister's  boarding 
school;  and  the  "Ballads"  and  "Tales"  to  unfold  and 
illustrate  religious  and  moral  truths  to  the  poor,  ignorant 
peasantry  of  her  own  country. 

Many  of  her  Poems  were  written  when  she  was  quite 
young,  and  to  the  youthful  poetess  she  will  be  a  safe  model 
to  study,  because  her  sentiments  are  peculiarly  calculated 
to  incite  a  desire  for  excellence  of  character,  which  is  far 
more  necessary  to  female  happiness,  and  much  more  easily 
attainable  than  eminence  in  poetry. 

We  place  her  honored  name  in  our  Wreath  to  be  an 
amulet  as  well  as  an  ornament;  and  if  it  be  not  properly 
designated  by  a  flower,  it  is  because  it  deserves  something 
less  perishable  —  it  is  the  evergreen  Pine,  the  emblem  of 
piety  and  philosophy,  whose  leaf  time  will  not  have  power 
to  wither — or  that  divine  "  Haemony,"  whose  root,  trans- 
planted to  a  more  blessed  clime, 

"  Bears  a  bright  golden  flower." 

The  "Life"  of  this  illustrious  woman  is  a  lesson  which 
our  sex  can  hardly  value  too  highly.  We  cannot  give  even 
the  outline  of  a  career,  noble  as  it  was  useful  and  active ; 
but  as  the  volumes  of  her  "  Memoirs  and  Correspondence  " 
are  accessible  to  all,  we  need  merely  give  the  most  im- 
portant data.  Mrs.  More  was  born  in  the  year  1745.  She 
was  the  youngest  but  one  of  the  five  daughters  of  Mr.  Jacob 
More  of  Stapleton,  in  the  county  of  Gloucester,  His  care- 
ful and  conscientious  education  of  his  children  was  greatly 
blessed,  and  has  secured  for  them  all,  but  particularly  for 
one,  an  enduring  record  in  the  hearts  of  the  pious  and  in- 
telligent. Hannah  early  exhibited  traits  of  genius,  and 
that  disposition  to  do  good,  which  continued  the  ruling  pas- 
sion of  her  life.  It  was  this  philanthropy  which  incited 
her  to  undertake  most  of  her  varied  writings.  Benevolence 


?'-i  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

was,  in  truth,  the  spontaneous  sentiment  of  her  soul,  and 
this,  guided  and  chastened  by  Christian  principle,  was  as 
effective  in  its  promptings  to  activity  as  ever  the  most  self- 
ish personal  ambition  has  proved  in  the  votaries  of  the 
world.  And  such  examples  are  inestimable  for  our  sex. 
This  benignity  of  disposition  she  retained  to  the  last,  and 
it  diffused  the  interest  of  youth  around  her  winter  of  exist- 
ence. An  American  gentleman,  who  visited  her  in  1824, 
when  she  was  79  years  old,  thus  describes  her  appearance. — 

"Mrs.  More  is  rather  short,  but  otherwise  of  an  usual 
size,  with  a  face  that  never  could  have  been  handsome,  and 
never  other  than  agreeable.  She  has  the  brightest  and 
most  intellectual  eye  that  I  ever  saw  in  an  aged  person  ;  it 
as  clear,  and  seemed  as  fully  awake  with  mind  and 
soul,  as  if  it  had  but  lately  opened  on  a  world  full  of  nov- 
elty. The  whole  of  her  face  was  strongly  characterized  by 
cheerfulness.  I  had  once  thought  the  world  was  deficient 
in  a  knowledge  of  the  means  of  rendering  old  age  agreea- 
ble, and  it  crossed  my  mind  that  I  would  suggest  to  Mrs. 
More  that  she  might,  better  than  any  person,  supply  the 
deficiency.  But  it  was  better  than  a  volume  on  this  sub- 
ject, to  see  her.  I  understand  the  whole  art  of  making  old 
age  peaceful  and  happy  at  a  glance.  It  is  only  to  exert  our 
talents  in  the  cause  of  virtue  as  she  has  done,  and  in  age 
be  like  her.  It  was  a  strong  lecture,  and  I  would  never 
forget  it." 

She  died  September  1833,  in  the  eighty-ninth  year  of  her 
age. 

"  How  shall  we  mourn  thee  1— With  a  lofty  trust, 
Our  life's  immortal  birthright  from  above ! 

With  a  glad  faith,  whose  eye,  to  track  the  just, 

Through  shades  and  mysteries  lifts  a  glance  of  love, 

And  yet  can  weep ! — for  nature  thus  deplores 

The  friend  that  leaves  us,  though  for  happier  shores." 


HANNAH  MORE.  83 


CONVERSATION. 

HAIL,  Conversation,  heavenly  fair, 
Thou  bliss  of  life,  and  balm  of  care  I 
Still  may  thy  gentle  reign  extend, 
And  Taste  with  Wit  and  Science  blend. 
Soft  polisher  of  rugged  man  ! 
Refiner  of  the  social  plan  1 
For  thee,  blest  solace  of  his  toil ! 
The  sage  consumes  the  midnight  oil, 
And  keeps  late  vigils,  to  produce 
Materials  for  thy  future  use ; 
Calls  forth  the  else  neglected  knowledge 
Of  school,  of  travel,  and  of  college. 

Let  Education's  moral  mint 
The  noblest  images  imprint; 
Let  Taste  her  curious  touchstone  hold, 
To  try  if  standard  be  the  gold; 
But  'tis  thy  commerce,  Conversation, 
Must  give  it  use  by  circulation  ; 
That  noblest  commerce  of  mankind, 

Whose  precious  merchandise  is  MIND. 

****** 

O'er  books  the  mind  inactive  lies,  — 
Books,  the  mind's  food,  not  exercise  ! 
Her  vigorous  wings  she  scarcely  feels, 
'Till  use  the  latent  strength  reveals; 
Her  slumbering  energies  called  forth, 
She  rises,  conscious  of  her  worth ; 
And  at  her  new-found  powers  elated, 
Thinks  them  not  roused,  but  new  created. 


84  THE   LADIES'   WREATH, 

Enlightened  spirits  !  you  who  know 
What  charms  from  polished  converse  flow, 
Speak,  for  you  can,  the  pure  delight 
When  kindling  sympathies  unite; 
When  correspondent  tastes  impart 
Communion  sweet  from  heart  to  heart; 
You  ne'er  the  cold  gradations  need 
Which  vulgar  souls  to  union  lead; 
No  dry  discussion  to  unfold 
The  meaning,  caught  ere  well  'tis  told ; 
In  taste,  in  learning,  wit,  or  science, 
Still  kindled  souls  demand  alliance; 
Each  in  the  other  joys  to  find 
The  image  answering  to  his  mind. 

But  sparks  electric  only  strike 
On  souls  electrical  alike  ; 
The  flash  of  intellect  expires, 
Unless  it  meet  congenial  fires ; 
What  lively  pleasure  to  divine, 
The  thought  implied,  the  hinted  line, 
To  feel  Allusions'  artful  force, 
And  trace  the  image  to  its  source ! 
Quick  Memory  blends  her  scattered  rays, 
Till  Fancy  kindles  at  the  blaze; 
The  works  of  ages  start  to  view, 

And  ancient  Wit  elicits  new. 

****** 

But  let  the  lettered  and  the  fair, 
And,  chiefly,  let  the  wit  beware ; 
You,  whose  warm  spirits  never  fail, 
Forgive  the  hint  which  ends  my  tale. 
O  shun  the  peril  which  attends 
On  wit,  on  warmth,  and  heed  your  friends  — 
Though  Science  nursed  you  in  her  bowers, 
Tho'  Fancy  crown  your  brow  with  flowers, 


HANNAH    MORE.  85 

Each  thought,  tho'  bright  Invention  fill, 

Tho'  Attic  bees  each  word  distil, 

Yet  if  one  gracious  power  refuse 

Her  gentle  influence  to  infuse, — 

If  she  withhold  her  magic  spell, 

Nor  in  the  social  circle  dwell, 

In  vain  shall  listening  crowds  approve ; 

They  '11  praise  you,  but  they  will  not  love. 

What  is  this  power,  you're  loth  to  mention, 
This  charm,  this  witchcraft?  'Tis  ATTENTION! 
Mute  angel,  yes ;  thy  looks  dispense 
The  silence  of  intelligence : 
Thy  graceful  form  I  well  discern, 
In  act  to  listen  and  to  learn ; 
'Tis  thou  for  talents  shall  obtain 
That  pardon  Wit  would  hope  in  vain ; 
Thy  wondrous  power,  thy  secret  charm, 
Shall  Envy  of  her  sting  disarm ; 
Thy  silent  flattery  soothes  our  spirit, 
And  we  forgive  eclipsing  merit; 
Our  jealous  souls  no  longer  burn, 
Nor  hate  thee,  tho'  thou  shine  in  turn ; 
The  sweet  atonement  screens  the  fault, 
And  love  and  praise  are  cheaply  bought. 

With  mild  complacency  to  hear, 
Tho'  somewhat  long  the  tale  appear  — 
The  dull  relation  to  attend, 
Which  mars  the  story  you  could  mend  ; 
'Tis  more  than  wit  —  'tis  moral  beauty, 
'Tis  pleasure  rising  out  of  duty. 
Nor  vainly  think,  the  time  you  waste, 
When  temper  triumphs  over  taste. 


86  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 


SENSIBILITY. 


SWEET  Sensibility  !  thou  keen  delight ! 
Unprompted  moral !  sudden  sense  of  right ! 
Perception  exquisite  !  fair  Virtue's  seed ! 
Thou  quick  precursor  of  the  liberal  deed  ! 
Thou  hasty  conscience  !  reason's  blushing  morn ! 
Instinctive  kindness  ere  reflection's  born ! 
Prompt  sense  of  equity  !  to  thee  belongs 
The  swift  redress  of  unexamined  wrongs ! 
Eager  to  serve,  the  cause  perhaps  untried, 
But  always  apt  to  choose  the  suff'ring  side ! 
To  those  who  know  thee  not,  no  words  can  paint, 
And  those  who  know  thee,  know  all  words  are  faint ! 

She  does  not  feel  thy  power  who  boasts  thy  flame, 
And  rounds  her  every  period  with  thy  name ; 
Nor  she  who  vents  her  disproportioned  sighs 
With  pining  Lesbia  when  her  sparrow  dies : 
Nor  she  who  melts  when  hapless  Shore  expires, 
While  real  misery  unrelieved  retires  ! 
Who  thinks  feigned  sorrows  all  her  tears  deserve, 
And  weeps  o'er   Werter  while  her  children  starve. 

As  words  are  but  th'  external  marks  to  tell 
The  fair  ideas  in  the  mind  that  dwell, 
And  only  are  of  things  the  outward  sign, 
And  not  the  things  themselves  they  but  define ; 
So  exclamations,  tender  tones,  fond  tears, 
And  all  the  graceful  drapery  Feeling  wears, 
These  are  her  garb,  not  her,  they  but  express 
Her  form,  her  semblance,  her  appropriate  dress ; 


HANNAH   MORE.  87 

And  these  fair  marks,  reluctant  I  relate, 
These  lovely  symbols  may  be  counterfeit. 


O  Love  divine  !  soul  source  of  charity  ! 
More  dear  one  genuine  deed  performed  for  thee, 
Than  all  the  periods  Feeling  e'er  could  turn, 
Than  all  thy  touching  page,  perverted  Sterne  ! 
Not  that  by  deeds  alone  this  love's  expressed  — 
If  so,  the  affluent  only  were  the  bless'd ; 
One  silent  wish,  one  prayer,  one  soothing  word, 
The  page  of  mercy  shall,  well-pleased,  record; 
One  soul-felt  sigh  by  powerless  pity  given, 
Accepted  incense  !  shall  ascend  to  heaven! 

Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things, 
And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs ; 
Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  tho'  but  few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please  ; 
O  let  th'  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence, 
A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence. 
To  spread  large  bounties,  tho'  we  wish  in  vain, 
Yet  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain : 
To  bless  mankind  with  tides  of  flowing  wealth, 
With  rank  to  grace  them,  or  to  crown  with  health, 
Our  little  lot  denies ;  yet  lib'ral  still, 
Heaven  gives  its  counterpoise  to  every  ill, 
Nor  let  us  murmur  at  our  stinted  powers, 
When  kindness,  love,  and  concord  may  be  ours. 
The  gift  of  minist'ring  to  other's  ease, 
To  all  her  sons  impartial  she  decrees; 
The  gentle  offices  of  patient  love, 
Beyond  all  flattery,  and  all  price  above ; 
The  mild  forbearance  at  a  brother's  fault, 
The  angry  word  suppressed,  the  taunting  thought ; 
Subduing  and  subdued,  the  petty  strife 
Which  clouds  the  color  of  domestic  life ; 


THE  LADIES'   WREATH. 

The  sober  comfort,  all  the  peace  which  springs, 
From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things ; 
On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife,  01  friend, 
The  utmost  sacred  joys  of  HOME  depend: 
There,  Sensibility,  thou  best  may'st  reign, 
HOME  is  thy  true,  legitimate  domain. 


SKETCHES  FROM  THE  SACRED  DRAMAS. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

A  TENDER  mother  lives 

In  many  lives ;  through  many  a  nerve  she  feels ; 

From  child  to  child  the  quick  affections  spread, 

Forever  wandering,  yet  forever  fixed. 

Nor  does  division  weaken,  nor  the  force 

Of  constant  operation  e'er  exhaust 

Parental  love.    All  other  passions  change 

With  changing  circumstances ;  rise  or  fall, 

Dependent  on  their  object ;  claim  returns  ; 

Live  on  reciprocation,  and  expire 

Unfed  by  hope.     A  mother's  fondness  reigns 

Without  a  rival,  and  without  an  end. 


A   GOOD   CONSCIENCE. 

The  ostentatious  virtuesw  hich  still  press 

For  notice  and  for  praise  ;  the  brilliant  deeds 

Which  live  but  in  the  eye  of  observation, 

These  have  their  meed  at  once.    But  there  's  a  joy, 

To   the  fond  votaries  of  Fame  unknown  — 

To  hear  the  still  small  voice  of  Conscience  speak 

Its  whispered  plaudit  to  the  silent  soul  I 


HANNAH    MORE. 


FAVOR   IS   FLEETING. 

• —  Dost  thou  not  know 

That  of  all  fickle  Fortune's  transient  gifts, 
Favor  is  most  deceitful  ?    'T  is  a  beam, 
Which  darts  uncertain  brightness  for  a  moment ! 
The  faint,  precarious,  fickly  shine  of  power, 
Given  without  merit,  by  caprice  withdrawn. 
No  trifle  is  so  small  as  what  obtains, 
Save  that  which  loses  favor ;  't  is  a  breath, 
Which  hangs  upon  a  smile  !  A  look,  a  word, 
A  frown,  the  air-built  tower  of  Fortune  shakes, 
And  down  the  unsubstantial  fabric  falls  ! 


FAITH. 

O  Faith !  thou  wonder-working  principle  — 
Eternal  substance  of  our  present  hope, 
Thou  evidence  of  things  invisible  ! 
What  cannot  man  sustain,  by  thee  sustained ! 

WISDOM. 

Wisdom,  whose  fruits  are  purity  and  peace  ! 
Wisdom !  that  bright  intelligence,  which  sat 
Supreme,  when  with  his  golden  compasses 
Th'  Eternal  plann'd  the  fabric  of  the  world, 
Produced  his  fair  idea  into  light, 
And  said  that  all  was  good  !  Wisdom,  blest  beam  ! 
The  brightness  of  the  everlasting  light! 
The  spotless  mirror  of  the  power  of  God! 
The  reflex  image  of  th'  all  perfect  Mind  ! 
A  stream  translucent,  flowing  from  the  source 
Of  glory  infinite  —  a  cloudless  light  !  — 
Defilement  cannot  touch,  nor  sin  pollute 
Her  unstained  purity.     Not  Ophir's  gold, 
8* 


90  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 

Nor  Ethiopia's  gems  can  match  her  price  ! 
The  ruby  of  the  mine  is  pale  before  her; 
And  like  the  oil  Elisha's  bounty  blessed, 
She  is  a  treasure  which  doth  grow  by  use, 
And  multiply  by  spending.     She  contains, 
Within  herself,  the  sum  of  excellence. 

If  riches  are  desired,  wisdom  is  wealth  ; 
If  prudence,  where  shall  keen  Invention  find 
Artificer  more  cunning?    If  renown, 
In  her  right  hand  it  comes !    If  piety, 
Are  not  her  labors  virtues?     If  the  lore 
Which  sage  Experience  teaches,  lo !  she  scans 
Antiquity's  dark  truths ;  the  past  she  knows, 
Anticipates  the  future;  not  by  arts 
Forbidden,  of  Chaldean  sorcery, 
But  from  the  piercing  ken  of  deep  Foreknowledge. 
From  her  sure  science  of  the  human  heart, 
She  weighs  effects  with  causes,  ends  with  means ; 
Resolving  all  into  the  sovereign  will. 


TRUST   IN   GOD. 

Know,  God  is  every  where :  — 
Through  all  the  vast  infinitude  of  space; 
At  his  command  the  furious  tempests  rise  — 
He  tells  the  world  of  waters  where  to  soar ; 
And  at  his  bidding  winds  and  waves  are  calm. 
In  Him,  not  in  an  arm  of  flesh,  I  trust ; 
In  Him,  whose  promise  never  yet  has  failed, 
I  place  my  confidence. 


ANNA   LJETITIA   BARBAULD.* 


DEAR  good  Mrs.  Barbauld  —  how  vividly  comes  the  re- 
membrance of  her  "  Hymns  in  Prose"  over  my  heart, 
mingling  with  those  pleasant  recollections  of  my  childhood  ; 
the  thought  of  the  earliest  violet,  always  gathered  by  me 
for  my  mother's  own>ye,  and  the  birds'  nests  in  that  thicket 
of  evergreens,  which,  duly  as  the  spring  came  round,  was 
my  aviary,  and  almost  my  abiding  place  !  Yes,  there  1 
first  read  her  sweet  "Hymns,"  and  learned  to  love  her 
name,  and  none  dearer  tome  shall  I  twine  in  my  "Wreath." 
Like  the  Lavender,  whose  rich  fragrance  makes  us  prize  its 
simple  flower,  her  poetry  will  be  treasured,  because  imbued 
with  those  pure  and  enduring  qualities  of  truth  and  feeling 
which  require  little  ornament.  The  genius  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld seems  never  to  have  incited  her  to  attempt  a  wide 
range,  or  a  very  lofty  flight ;  but  in  the  sphere  she  chose, 
her  taste  and  observation  were  correct  and  delicately 
nice;  and  her  moral,  feelings  were  elevated  and  bright 
with  all  that  is  best  and  holiest  in  our  nature.  Hence 
she  succeeded  better  in  those  compositions  which  were  ad- 
dressed to  the  heart,  than  in  her  more  studied  efforts  to  en- 
gage<  the  imagination  and  the  reasoning  powers-  Her 

*  Her  "  Works,"  with  a  "  Memoir"  by  Lucy  Aikin  are  printed 
in  two  handsome  volumes,  which  ought  to  be  in  the  Library  of 
every  lady. 


92  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

"  Hymns  in  Prose  "  are  more  truly  poetical,  than  her 
rhymes;  because  in  the  former,  the  heart  pours  itself  out  in 
that  true  divinity  of  poetry,  the  love  of  Nature,  and  of  Na- 
ture's God,  unfettered  by  those  rules  of  verse,  which  to  her 
mind  must,  we  think,  always  have  proved  heavy  and  irk- 
some. Her  prose  is  written  with  more  freedom  and  appar- 
ent ease  than  her  poetry  ;  and  her  style  is  vigorous  and  el- 
egant.—  There  is  a  benignity,  mingled  with  sprightliness, 
in  many  of  her  productions,  which  seems  breathed  from  a 
happy  as  well  as  innocent  heart :  and  it  adds  very  much 
to  our  pleasure  when  reading  a  delightful  book,  to  feel  as- 
sured that  it  was  written  in  the  same  spirit  of  complacency. 
This  pleasure  we  always  enjoy  over  the  works  of  Mrs. 
Barbauld. 

The  maiden  name  of  this  poetess  was  Aiken.  She  was 
the  only  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Aiken  ;  and  was  born 
at  the  village  of  Kibworth  Harcourt,  in  Leicestershire,  June, 
1743. —  She  exhibited  in  her  earliest  infancy  an  uncom- 
mon quickness  of  apprehension,  and  though  her  education 
was  entirely  domestic,  and  her  literary  advantages  in  youth 
quite  circumscribed,  yet  her  own  industry  and  talents  over- 
came all  these  obstacles,  and  she  became  an  authoress  of 
high  repute,  before  her  marriage  with  the  Rev.  Rochemont 
Barbauld,  which  took  place  in  1774.  From  that  time  she 
devoted  the  greatest  portion  of  her  time  and  thoughts  to 
the  assistance  of  her  husband,  who  was  for  many  years  en- 
gaged in  superintending  the  education  of  a  select  number 
of  boys,  from  among  the  first  families.  Mrs.  Barbauld 
seems  to  have  had  a  tender  love  for  children,  though  she 
had  none  of  her  own ;  and  the  aid  she  rendered  her  excel- 
lent husband  in  the  education  of  his  pupils,  was,  without 
doubt,  of  much  service  in  disciplining  and  strengthening 
her  own  mind.  She  survived  her  husband  a  number  of 
years,  devoting  her  widowhood  to  deeds  of  benevolence 
and  her  literary  pursuits.  Her  own  death  occurred  March 
9th,  1825,  in  the  eighty -second  year  of  her  age  j  and  she 
retaiped  to  the  last  her  cheerfulness. 


MRS.    BARBAULD.  93 

Her  personal  appearance  has  been  thus  described  by  her 
niece,  Miss  Lucy  Aiken. — "She  was  in  youth  possessed  of 
great  beauty,  distinct  traces  of  which  she  retained  to  the 
latest  period  of  her  life.  Her  person  was  slender,  her 
complexion  exquisitely  fair,  with  the  bloom  of  perfect  health ; 
her  features  were  regular  and  elegant,  and  her  dark  blue 
eyes  beamed  with  the  light  of  fancy." 

We  may  add  that  she  exhibited  through  life  that  most 
precious  of  examples,  intellectual  eminence  and  Christian 
humility,  united  in  a  lovely  and  accomplished  woman. 


TO  MR.  BARBAULIX 

Nov.   4th,    1778. 

COME,  clear  thy  studious  looks  awhile; 

'T  is  arrant  treason  now 

To  wear  that  moping  brow, 

When  I,  thy  empress,  bid  thee  smile. 

What  though  the  fading  year 

One  wreath  will  not  afford 

To  grace  the  poet's  hair, 

Or  deck  the  festal  board  ;  — 

A  thousand  pretty  ways  we'll  find 

To  mock  old  Winter's  starving  reign  j 

We  '11  bid  the  violets  spring  again ; 

Bid  rich  poetic  roses  blow, 

Peeping  above  his  heaps  of  snow ; 

We  '11  dress  his  withered  cheeks  in  flowers, 

And  on  his  smooth  bald  head 

Fantastic  garlands  bind; 

Garlands,  which  we  will  get 

From  the  gay  blooms  of  that  immortal  year, 

Above  the  turning  season,  set. 


94  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

Where  young  ideas  shoot  in  Fancy's  sunny  bowers. 

A  thousand  pleasant  arts  we'll  have 

To  add  new  feathers  to  the  wings  of  Time, 

And  make  him  smoothly  haste  away : 

We  '11  use  him  as  our  slave, 
And  when  we  please  we'll  bid  him  stay, 
And  clip  his  wings,  and  make  him  stop  to  view 
Our  studies  and  our  follies  too  ; 
How  sweet  our  follies  are,  how  high  our  fancies  climb. 

We  '11  little  care  what  others  do, 
And  where  they  go,  and  what  they  say  ; 
Our  bliss,  all  inward  and  our  own, 
Would  only  tarnished  be,  by  being  shown, 
The  talking,  restless  world  shall  see, 
Spite  of  the  world  we'll  happy  be, 
But  none  shall  know 
How  much  we  're  so, 
Save  only  Love,  and  we. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEITY. 

GOD  of  my  life!  and  author  of  my  days! 

Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise ; 

And,  trembling,  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 

That  hallowed  name  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung. 

Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 

Than  veil  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 

Worms,  angels,  men,  in  every  different  sphere 

Are  equal  all,  —  for  all  are  nothing  here. 

All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name, 

Which  nature's  works  through  all  their  parts  proclaim. 

I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 

And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul ; 


MRS.    BARBAULD.  95 

As  by  a  charm,  the  waves  of  grief  subside  ; 
Impetuous  Passion  stops  her  headlong  tide  : 
At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease. 
And  my  hushed  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace, 
Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies, 
And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 
Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  injnfinite, 
And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 
But  soon,  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke ; 
My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke ;  — 
With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
But  he,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 
Knowing  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
His  spirit,  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind, 
Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined  j 
Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry, 
His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye ; 
He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give ; 
Accept  the  vow,  and  bid  the  suppliant  live  : 
From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free ; 
Still  every  wish  that  centres  not  in  thee ; 
Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease, 
And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  Pleasure  leads 
By  living  waters,  and  through  flowery  meads, 
When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene, 
And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene, 
O  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare, 
And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart  —  Beware  ! 
With  caution  let  me  hear  the  syren's  voice, 
And,  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart  rejoice. 


96  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

If  friendless,  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see, 
And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  thee ; 
With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
Resigned  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live ; 
Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

I  read  his  awful  name,  emblazoned  high 
With  golden  letters  on  the  illumined  sky  ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  in  every  tree  ; 
In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees ; 
With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
With  thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk ; 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power, 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 

Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fears  control : 
Thus  shall  I  rest,  unmoved  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 

Then,  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye ; 
When,  trembling,  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state  : 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And  having  lived  to  thee,  in  thee  to  die. 


MRS,   BARBAULD,  97 


TO  MRS.  R  *  *  *  *, 

|  ON  HER  ATTENDANCE  UPON  HER  MOTHER,  AT  BUXTON.j 

WHEN  blooming  beauty  in  the  noon  of  power, 
While  offered  joys  demand  each  sprightly  hour, 
With  all  that  pomp  of  charms  and  winning  mien 
Which  sure  to  conquer  needs  but  to  be  seen  ; 
When  she,  whose  name  the  softest  love  inspires, 
To  the  hush'd  chamber  of  disease  retires, 
To  watch  and  weep  beside  a  parent's  bed, 
Catch  the  faint  voice,  and  raise  the  languid  head,  — 
What  mixt  delight  each  feeling  heart  must  warm  ! 
An  angel's  office  suits  an  angel's  form. 
Thus  the  tall  column  graceful  rears  its  head 
To  prop  some  mould'ring  tower  with  moss  o'erspread, 
Whose  stately  piles  and  arches  yet  display 
The  venerable  graces  of  decay  : 
Thus  round  the  withered  trunk  fresh  shoots  are  seen 
To  shade  their  parent  with  a  cheerful  green. 
More  health,  dear  maid  !  thy  soothing  presence  brings 
Than  purest  skies,  or  salutary  springs. 
That  voice,  those  looks  such  healing  virtues  bear, 
Thy  sweet  reviving  smiles  might  cheer  despair  ; 
On  the  pale  lips  detain  the  parting  breath, 
And  bid  hope  blossom  in  the  shades  of  death. 
Beauty,  like  thine,  could  never  reach  a  charm 
So  powerful  to  subdue,  so  sure  to  warm. 
On  her  loved  child  behold  the  mother  gaze, 
In  weakness  pleased,  and  smiling  through  decays, 
And  leaning  on  that  breast  her  cares  assuage  j  — 
How  soft  a  pillow  for  declining  age  ! 
9 


98  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

For  this,  when  that  fair  frame  must  feel  decay, — 
Ye  Fates  protract  it  to  a  distant  day, — 
When  thy  approach  no  tumults  shall  impart, 
Nor  that  commanding  glance  strike  through  the  heart, 
When  meaner  beauties  shall  have  leave  to  shine, 
And  crowds  divide  the  homage  lately  thine, 
Not  with  the  transient  praise  those  charms  can  boast 
Shall  thy  fair  fame  and  gentle  deeds  be  lost : 
Some  pious  hand  shall  thy  weak  limbs  sustain, 
And  pay  thee  back  these  generous  cares  again ; 
Thy  name  shall  flourish,  by  the  good  approved. 
Thy  memory  honored,  and  thy  dust  beloved. 


A  THOUGHT  ON  DEATH. 
November,  1814. 

WHEN  life  as  opening  buds  is  sweet, 
And  golden  hopes  the  fancy  greet, 
And  youth  prepares  his  joys  to  meet,— 
Alas  how  hard  it  is  to  die ! 

When  just  is  seized  some  valued  prize, 
And  duties  press,  and  tender  ties 
Forbid  the  soul  from  earth  to  rise, — 
How  awful  then  it  is  to  die ! 

When,  one  by  one,  those  ties  are  torn, 
And  friend  from  friend  is  snatched  forlorn, 
And  man  is  left  alone  to  mourn, — 
Ah  then,  how  easy  'tis  to  die  1 

When  faith  is  firm  and  conscience  clear, 
And  words  of  peace  the  spirit  cheer, 


MRS.    BARBAULD.  99 

And  visioned  glories  half  appear, — 
'Tis  joy,  't  is  triumph  then  to  die. 

When  trembling  limbs  refuse  their  weight, 
And  films,  slow  gathering,  dim  the  sight, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  mental  light, — 
'T  is  nature's  precious  boon  to  die. 


WASHING-DAY. 

THE  Muses  are  turned  gossips;  they  have  lost 

The  buskined  step,  and  clear  high-sounding  phrase, 

Language  of  gods.     Come  then,  domestic  Muse, 

In  slipshod  measure  loosely  prattling  on 

Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream, 

Or  drowning  flies,  or  shoe  lost  on  the  mire 

By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face  j 

Come,  Muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  Washing-day. 

Ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend, 

With  bowed  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 

Which  week,  smooth  sliding  after  week,  brings  on 

Too  soon  ;  — for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs 

Nor  comfort ;  —  ere  the  first  gray  streak  of  dawn3 

The  red-armed  washers  come  and  chase  repose. 

Nor  pleasant  smile,  nor  quaint  device  of  mirth, 

E'er  visited  that  day :  the  very  cat, 

From  the  wet  kitchen  scared  and  reeking  hearth, 

Visits  the  parlor,  —  an  unwonted  guest. 

The  silent  breakfast-meal  is  soon  dispatched  j 

Uninterrupted,  save  by  anxious  looks 

Cast  at  the  lowering  sky,  if  sky  should  lower. 

From  that  last  evil,  O  preserve  us,  heavens  ! 

For  should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 


100  THE  LADIES'    WREATH. 

Remains  of  quiet;  then  expect  to  hear 

Of  sad  disasters, — dirt  and  gravel  stains 

Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 

Snapped  short, — and  linen-horse  by  dog  thrown  down, 

And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 

Saints  have  been  calm  while  stretch'd  upon  the  rack, 

And  Guatimozin  smiled  on  burning  coals  ; 

But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 

Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  washing-day. 

—  But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thou 

Who  call'st  thyself  perchance  the  master  there, 

Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  coat. 

Or  usual  'tendance ;  —  ask  not,  indiscreet, 

Thy  stockings  mended,  though  the  yawning  rents 

Gape  wide  as  Erebus ;  nor  hope  to  find 

Some  snug  recess  impervious  :  should'st  thou  try 

The  'custoraed  garden  walks,  thine  eye  shall  rue 

The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs, 

Myrtle  or  rose,  all  crushed  beneath  the  weight 

Of  coarse  checked  apron,  —  with  impatient  hand 

Twitch'd  off  when  showers  impend :  or  crossing  lines 

Shall  mar  thy  musings,  as  the  wet  cold  sheet 

Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.     Wo  to  the  friend 

Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 

On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites ! 

Looks,  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy, 

Shall  he  receive.     Vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 

With  dinner  of  roast  chicken,  savory  pie, 

Or  tart,  or  pudding:  — pudding  he  nor  tart 

That  day  shall  eat ;  nor,  though  the  husband  try, 

Mending  what  can't  be  helped,  to  kindle  mirth 

From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  brow 

Clear  up  propitious:  —  the  unlucky  guest 

In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 

I  well  remember,  when  a  child,  the  awe 

This  day  struck  into  me;  for  then  the  maids, 


MRS.  BARBAULD.  101 

I  scarce  knew  why,  look'd  cross,  and  drove  me  from  them: 

Nor  soft  caress  could  I  obtain,  nor  hope 

Usual  indulgencies ;  jelly  or  creams. 

Relic  of  costly  suppers,  and  set  by 

For  me  their  petted  one  ;  or  buttered  toast, 

When  butter  was  forbid ;  or  thrilling  tale 

Of  ghost  or  witch,  or  murder — so  I  went 

And  sheltered  me  beside  the  parlor  fire : 

There  my  dear  grandmother,  eldest  of  forms, 

Tended  the  little  ones,  and  watched  from  harm, 

Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 

With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 

Drawn  from  her  ravell'd  stocking,  might  have  sour'd 

One  less  indulgent. — 

At  intervals  my  mother's  voice  was  heard, 

Urging  despatch  :  briskly  the  work  went  on, 

All  hands  employed  to  wash,  to  rinse,  to  wring, 

To  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and  plait. 

Then  would  I  sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 

Why  washings  were.    Sometimes  through  hollow  bowl 

Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 

The  floating  bubbles;  little  dreaming  then 

To  see,  Mongolfier,  thy  silken  ball 

Ride  buoy  ant  through  the  clouds — so  near  approach 

The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 

Earth,  air,  and  sky,  and  ocean,  hath  its  bubbles, 

And  verse  is  one  of  them  —  this  most  of  all. 


JANE    TAYLOR.* 


THE  poetry  of  Miss  Taylor  always  reminds  me  of  Cow- 
per's ;  and  in  the  character  of  their  minds  there  was  a  strik- 
ing similarity,  as  any  one  must  have  noticed,  who  has  read 
the  "  Memoirs  and  Correspondence"  of  each  of  these  gift- 
ed, good,  and  gentle  beings.  Miss  Taylor  possessed,  like 
Cowper,  a  vein  of  playful  humor,  that  often  gave  point  and 
vividness  to  the  most  sombre  sentiment,  and  usually  ani- 
mated the  strains  she  sung  for  children  ;  but  still,  there  was 
often  over  her  fancy,  as  over  his,  a  deep  shade  of  pensive- 
ness,  —  "  morbid  humility,"  she  somewhere  calls  it,  —  and 
no  phrase  could  better  express  the  state  of  feeling  which 
frequently  oppressed  her  heart.  The  kind  and  soothing  do- 
mestic influences  which  were  always  around  her  path  in 
life,  prevented  the  sad  and  despairing  tone  of  her  mind  from 
ever  acquiring  the  predominance,  so  as  to  unfit  her  for  her 
duties ;  in  this  respect  she  was  much  more  favored  than  the 
bard  of  Olney.  But  we  are  inclined  to  think  that,  had  she 
met  with  severe  trials  and  misfortunes,  the  character  of  her 
poetry  would  have  been  more  elevated,  and  her  language 
more  glowing.  The  retiring  sensitiveness  of  her  disposi- 
tion kept  down,  usually,  that  energy  of  thought  and  eleva- 

*  There  is  an  American  edition,  in  three  volumes,  of  the  writ- 
ings of  Miss  Taylor,  to  which  is  prefixed  her  "  Memoirs  and  Cor- 
respondence." 


JANE   TAYLOR.  103 

tion  of  sentiment,  which,  from  a  few  specimens  of  her  later 
writings,  she  seemed  gifted  to  sustain,  could  she  only  have 
been  incited  to  the  effort. 

Miss  Taylor  was  born  in  London,  September,  1783.  She 
was  the  second  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Taylor,  of  Ongar ; 
and  her  mother  was,  late  in  life,  a  writer  of  considerable 
celebrity.  Her  father,  however,  was  not  ordained  a  clergy- 
man till  Jane  was  nearly  thirteen  years  of  age.  He  was 
by  profession  an  engraver,  and  taught  both  his  daughters 
the  art,  as  a  means  of  independence.  Jane  excelled  in 
drawing  ;  her  delicate  taste  and  fine  genius  particularly  fit- 
ted her  to  appreciate  the  beautiful  in  nature;  but  she  never 
succeeded  to  satisfy  herself  in  the  productions  of  the  grav- 
er. The  education  of  Jane  was  almost  entirely  conducted 
at  home,  by  her  excellent  and  sensible  parents ;  and  she 
constantly,  in  her  letters,  dwells  on  the  happiness  of  this 
endearing  domestic  intercourse.  Her  first  effort  at  rhyme 
was  made  at  the  early  age  of  ten  years ;  and  throughout 
her  youth  the  predominance  of  the  poetical  feeling  is  evi- 
dent, but  her  timidity  constantly  checked  the  natural  pro- 
pensity. It  was  not  till  1804  that  she  ventured  to  appear 
in  print.  From  that  period  till  her  decease,  which  occur- 
red in  1824,  she  was  more  or  less  occupied  in  literary  pur- 
suits. Her  prose  writings,  under  the  title  of  "  Contribu- 
tions of  QA  Q,.  to  a  Periodical,"  are  too  well  known  to  need 
description;  and  the  simple  story  of  hers,  entitled  "Dis- 
play," has  acquired  a  popularity  which  few  regular  two- 
volumed  novels  ever  attained.  But  it  is  in  her  familiar 
"  Correspondence,"  that  the  real  beauty  and  brightness  of 
her  genius  and  intellect  are  best  comprehended.  Pure  as 
the  first  Snow-drop  of  spring  was  her  fancy,  and  there  is  a 
child-like  simplicity  in  her  feelings,  that  makes  the  reader 
of  her  unstudied  effusions  love  her  at  once.  Her  piety  was 
deep  and  most  humble :  diffidence  was  usually  in  all  things 
the  prevailing  mood  of  her  mind ;  and  this  often  clouded 
her  religious  enjoyment.  But  she  triumphed  in  the  closing 


104  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

scene ;  those  "  unreal  fears  "  were,  in  a  great  measure,  re- 
moved, and  she  went  down  to  the  "  cold  dark  grave  "  with 
that  firm  trust  in  her  Redeemer  which  disarmed  death  of 
its  terrors. 

"  Pure  spirits  should  not  pass  unmourned ; 

This  earth  is  poor  without  them.     But  a  view 
Of  better  climes  broke  on  her,  and  her  soul 
Rose  o'er  its  stricken  tent  with  outspread  wing 
Of  seraph  rapture." 


THE  WORLD  IN  THE  HEART. 


ASK  the  good  housewife,  mid  her  bustling  maids, 
If  ne'er  the  world  her  humbler  sphere  invades. 
But  if,  (unconscious  of  its  secret  sway,) 
She  own  it  not,  her  eager  looks  betray. 
Yes,  there  you  find  it,  spite  of  locks  and  bars, 
Hid  in  the  store-room  with  her  jams  and  jars; 
It  crilds  her  china,  in  her  cupboard  shines, 
Works  at  the  vent-peg  of  her  homemade  wines, 
Each  varied  dainty  to  her  board  supplies, 
And  comes  up  smoking  in  her  Christmas  pies. 

The  charms  of  mental  converse  some  may  fear. 
Who  scruple  not  to  lend  a  ready  ear 
To  kitchen  tales,  of  scandal,  strife,  and  love, 
Which  make  the  maid  and  mistress  hand  and  glove; 
And  ever  deem  the  sin  and  danger  less, 
Merely  for  being  in  a  vulger  dress. 

Thus  the  world  haunts,  in  forms  of  varied  kind, 
The  intellectual  and  the  grovelling  mind ; 


JANE    TAYLOR.  105 

Now,  sparkling  in  the  muse's  fair  attire, 

Now,  red  and  busy  at  the  kitchen  fire. 

And  were  you  called  to  give  a  casting  voice, 

One  to  select,  from  such  a  meagre  choice, 

Deciding  which  life's  purpose  most  mistook  — 

Would  you  not  say, — the  worldly-minded  cook? 

Not  intellectual  vanity  to  natter ; 

— Simply,  that  mind  precedence  claims  of  matter. 

And  she,  whose  nobler  course  is  seen  to  shine, 
At  once,  with  human  knowledge  and  divine ; 
Who,  mental  culture  and  domestic  rites 
In  close  and  graceful  amity  unites  j. 
Striving  to  hold  them  in  their  proper  place. 
Not  interfering  with  her  heavenly  race  ; 
Whose  constant  aim  it  is,  and  fervent  prayer, 
On  earthly  ground  to  breathe  celestial  air ; — 
Still,  she  could  witness  how  the  world  betrays, 
Steals  softly  in  by  unsuspected  ways, 
Her  yielding  soul  from  heavenly  converse  bears, 
And  holds  her  captive  in  its  silken  snares. 
Could  she  not  tell  the  trifles,  that  are  brought 
To  rival  heaven,  and  drive  it  from  her  thought? 
—  Her  heart  (unconscious  of  the  flowery  trap) 
Caught  in  the  sprigs  upon  a  baby's  cap; 
Thence  disengaged,  its  freedom  boasts  awhile, 
Till  taken  captive  by  the  baby's  smile. 

But  oh,  how  mournful  when  resistance  fails, 
The  conflict  slackens,  and  the  foe  prevails  ! 
For  instance — yonder  matron,  who  appears 
Softly  descending  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
And  yet,  with  health,  and  constant  care  bestowed, 
Still  comely,  embonpoint  and  ct,  la  mode. 
Once,  in  her  youthful  days,  her  heart  was  warm  ; 
At  least  her  feelings  wore  devotion's  form; 


106  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  ever  since,  to  quell  the  rising  doubt, 

She  makes  that  grain  of  godliness  eke  out. 

With  comfort  still,  the  distant  day  she  sees. 

When  grief  or  terror  brought  her  to  her  knees ; 

When  Christian  friends  rejoiced  at  what  she  told, 

And  bade  her  welcome  to  the  Church's  fold. 

There  still  she  rests,  her  words,  her  forms  the  same  ; 

There  holds  profession's  lamp  without  the  flame ; 

Her  Sabbaths  come  and  go,  with  even  pace ; 

Year  after  year,  you  find  her  in  her  place, 

And  still  no  change  apparent,  saving  that 

Of  time  and  fashion,  in  her  face  and  hat. 

She  stands  or  kneels  as  usual,  hears  and  sings ; 

Goes  home  and  dines,  and  talks  of  other  things; 

Enjoys  her  comforts  with  as  strong  a  gdut 

As  if  they  were  not  fading  from  her  view ; 

And  still  is  telling  what  she  means  to  do: 

Talks  of  events  that  happen  to  befall, 

Not  like  a  stranger,  passing  from  it  all, 

But  eager,  anxious  in  their  issue  still, 

Hoping  this  will  not  be,  or  that  it  will ; 

Getting,  enjoying,  all  that  can  be  had; 

Amused  with  trifles,  and  at  trifles  sad  : 

While  hope  still  whispers  in  her  willing  ears, 

"  Soul,  thou  hast  goods  laid  up  for  many  years." 

A  few,  brief  words  her  character  portray — 

— This  world  contents  her,  if  she  might  but  stay. 

When  true  and  fervent  pilgrims  round  her  press, 

She  inly  wishes  that  their  zeal  were  less. 

Their  works  of  love,  their  spirit,  faith,  and  prayers, 

Their  calm  indifference  to  the  world's  affairs, 

Reproach  her  deadness,  and  she  fain,  for  one, 

Would  call  their  zeal  and  ardor  overdone. 

But  what  her  thought  is — what  her  hope  and  stay, 
In  moments  of  reflection,  who  shall  say  ? 
— Time  does  not  slacken, — nay,  he  speeds  his  pace, 


JANE    TAYLOR.  107 

Bearing  her  onward  to  her  finished  race : 

The  common  doom  awaits  her,  "  dust  to  dust ; " 

The  young  may  soon  receive  it,  but  she  must. 

What  is  the  Christian's  course?  —  the  Scriptures  say, 

"  Brighter  and  brighter  to  the  perfect  day  ! " 

Oh !  does  her  earthly  mind,  her  anxious  heart, 

Clinging  to  life,  not  longing  to  depart, 

Her  languid  prayer,  her  graces  dim  and  faint, 

Meet  that  description  of  the  growing  saint  ? 

Let  her  inquire  (for  far  is  spent  the  night) 

If  she  be  meeten'd  for  that  world  of  light: 

Where  are  her  highest,  best  affections  placed  ? — 

Death  may  improve,  but  not  reverse  the  taste : 

Does  she  indeed  the  things  of  time  prefer? 

Then  surely  heaven  could  not  be  heaven  to  her. 


"  THE  THINGS  THAT  ARE  UNSEEN  ARE 
ETERNAL." 

THERE  is  a  state  unknown,  unseen, 

Where  parted  souls  must  be ; 
And  but  a  step  may  be  between 

That  world  of  souls  and  me. 

The  friend  I  loved  has  thither  fled, 
With  whom  I  sojourned  here  : 

I  see  no  sight — I  hear  no  tread. 
But  may  she  not  be  near  ? 

I  see  no  light  —  I  hear  no  sound, 
When  midnight  shades  are  spread ; 

Yet  angels  pitch  their  tents  around, 
And  guard  my  quiet  bed. 


108  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 

Jesus  was  wrapt  from  mortal  gaze, 
And  clouds  conveyed  him  hence  j 

Enthroned  amid  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Beyond  our  feeble  sense. — 

Yet  say  not  —  Who  shall  mount  on  high, 
To  bring  him  from  above  ? 

For  lo !  the  Lord  is  always  nigh 
The  children  of  his  love. 

The  Savior,  whom  I  long  have  sought, 
And  would,  but  cannot  see  — 

And  is  he  here  ?     O  wondrous  thought ! 
And  will  he  dwell  with  me? 

I  ask  not  with  my  mortal  eye 
To  view  the  vision  bright  ? 

I  dare  not  see  Thee,  lest  I  die ; 
Yet,  Lord,  restore  my  sight ! 

Give  me  to  see  Thee,  and  to  feel  — 

The  mental  vision  clear: 
The  things  unseen  reveal !  reveal ! 

And  let  me  know  them  near. 

I  seek  not  fancy's  glittering  height, 
That  charmed  my  ardent  youth  ; 

But  in  thy  light  would  see  the  light, 
And  learn  thy  perfect  truth. 

The  gathering  clouds  of  sense  dispel, 
That  wrap  my  soul  around; 

In  heavenly  places  make  me  dwell, 
While  treading  earthly  ground. 

Illume  this  shadowy  soul  of  mine, 
That  still  in  darkness  lies ; 


JANE   TAYLOR.  109 

O  let  the  light  in  darkness  shine, 
And  bid  the  day-star  rise ! 

Impart  the  faith  that  soars  on  high, 

Beyond  this  earthly  strife, 
That  holds  sweet  converse  with  the  sky, 

And  lives  Eternal  Life ! 


EXPERIENCE. 


How  false  is  found,  as  on  in  life  we  go, 
Our  early  estimate  of  bliss  and  wo ! 
—  Some  sparkling  joy  attracts  us,  that  we  fain 
Would  sell  a  precious  birth-right  to  obtain. 
There  all  our  hopes  of  happiness  are  placed ; 
Life  looks  without  it  like  a  joyless  waste ; 
No  good  is  prized,  no  comfort  sought  beside ; 
Prayers,  tears  implore,  and  will  not  be  denied. 
Heaven  pitying  hears  the  intemperate,  rude  appeal, 
And  suits  its  answer  to  our  truest  weal. 
The  self-sought  idol,  if  at  last  bestowed, 
Proves,  what  our  wilfulness  required  —  a  goad ; 
Ne'er  but  as  needful  chastisement,  is  given 
The  wish  thus  forc'd,  and  torn,  and  storm'd  from  heaven: 
But  if  withheld,  in  pity,  from  our  prayer, 
We  rave,  awhile,  of  torment  and  despair, 
Refuse  each  proffered  comfort  with  disdain, 
And  slight  the  thousand  blessings  that  remain ; 
Meantime,  Heaven  bears  the  grievous  wrong,  and  waits 
In  patient  pity  till  the  storm  abates ; 
Applies  with  gentlest  hand  the  healing  balm, 
Or  speaks  the  ruffled  mind  into  a  calm ; 
10 


110  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Deigning,  perhaps,  to  show  the  mourner  soon, 
JT  was  special  mercy  that  denied  the  boon. 

Our  blasted  hopes,  our  aims  and  wishes  crost 
Are  worth  the  tears  and  agonies  they  cost ; 
When  the  poor  mind,  by  fruitless  efforts  spent,       « 
With  food  and  raiment  learns  to  be  content. 
Bounding  with  youthful  hope,  the  restless  mind 
Leaves  that  divine  monition  far  behind; 
But  tamed  at  length  by  suffering,  comprehends 
The  tranquil  happiness  to  which  it  tends, 
Perceives  the  high- wrought  bliss  it  aimed  to  share 
Demands  a  richer  soil,  a  purer  air ; 
That  't  is  not  fitted,  and  would  strangely  grace 
The  mean  condition  of  our  mortal  race; 
And  all  we  need,  in  this  terrestrial  spot, 
Is  calm  contentment  with  "  the  common  lot." 


ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

How  is  it  that  masters,  and  science,  and  art, 
One  spark  of  intelligence  fail  to  impart, 
Unless  in  that  chemical  union  combined, 
Of  which  the  result,  in  one  word,  is  a  mind  ? 

A  youth  may  have  studied,  and  travelled  abroad, 
May  sing  like  Apollo,  and  paint  like  a  Claude, 
And  speak  all  the  languages  under  the  pole, 
And  have  every  gift  in  the  world,  but  a  soul. 

That  drapery  wrought  by  the  leisurely  fair, 

Called  patchwork,  may  well  to  such  genius  compare, 


JANE    TAYLOR.  Ill 

Wherein  every  tint  of  the  rainbow  appears, 

And  stars  to  adorn  it  are  forced  from  their  spheres. 

There  glows  a  bright  pattern  (a  sprig,  or  a  spot) 
3T  wixt  clusters  of  roses  full-blown  and  red  hot; 
Here  magnified  tulips  divided  in  three, 
Alternately  shaded  with  sections  of  tree. 

But  when  all  is  finished,  this  labor  of  years, 
A  mass  unharmonious,  unmeaning  appears  3 
1Tis  showy,  but  void  of  intelligent  grace ; 
It  is  not  a  landscape — it  is  not  a  face. 

'Tis  thus  Education,  (so  called  in  our  schools,) 
With  costly  materials,  and  capital  tools, 
Sits  down  to  her  work,  if  you  duly  reward  her, 
And  sends  it  home  finished  according  to  order. 

See  French  and  Italian  spread  out  on  her  lap ; 
Then  Dancing  springs  up,  and  skips  into  a  gap  ; 
Next  Drawing  and  all  its  varieties  come, 
Sewed  down  in  her  place  by  her  finger  and  thumb. 

And  then,  for  completing  her  fanciful  robes, 
Geography,  Music,  the  use  of  the  Globes, 
&c.  &c.,  which,  match  as  they  will, 
Are  sewn  into  shape,  and  set  down  in  the  bill. 

Thus  Science  distorted,  and  torn  into  bits, 
Art  tortured,  and  frightened  half  out  of  her  wits  ; 
In  portions  and  patches,  some  light  and  some  shady, 
Are  stitched  up  together,  and  make  a  young  lady. 


U2  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  SCALES. 

IN  days  of  yore,  as  Gothic  fable  tells, 
When  learning  dimly  gleamed  from  grated  cells, 
When  wild  Astrology's  distorted  eye 
Shunned  the  fair  field  of  true  philosophy, 
And,  wandering  through  the  depths  of  mental  night, 
Sought  dark  predictions  'mid  the  worlds  of  light:  — 
When  curious  Alchymy,  with  puzzled  brow, 
Attempted  things  that  Science  laughs  at  now, 
Losing  the  useful  purpose  she  consults, 
In  vain  chimeras  and  unknown  results :  — 
In  those  gray  times  there  lived  a  reverend  sage, 
Whose  wisdom  shed  its  lustre  on  the  age. 
A  monk  he  was,  immured  in  cloistered  walls, 
Where  now  the  ivy'd  ruin  crumbling  falls. 
'T  was  a  profound  seclusion  that  he  chose; 
The  noisy  world  disturbed  not  that  repose : 
The  flow  of  murmuring  waters,  day  by  day, 
And  whistling  winds  that  forced  their  tardy  way 
Through  reverend  trees,  of  ages  growth,  that  made, 
Around  the  holy  pile  a  deep  monastic  shade ; 
The  chanted  psalm,  or  solitary  prayer  — 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  broke  the  silence  there. 


JT  was  here,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er, 
In  the  depth  of  his  cell  with  its  stone-covered  floor, 
Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain, 
He  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain: 
But  whether  by  magic,  or  alchymy's  powers, 
We  know  not — indeed  't  is  no  business  of  ours : 


JANE    TAYLOR.  113 

Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care, 

At  last  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear. 

In  youth  'twas  projected;  but  years  stole  away. 

And  ere  'twas  complete  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray  : 

But  success  is  secure  unless  energy  fails ; 

And  at  length  he  produced  The  Philosopher's  Scales. 

What  were  they?  — you  ask:  you  shall  presently  see  , 
These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea; 
O  no; — for  such  properties  wondrous  had  they, 
That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  could  weigh ; 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 
From  mountains  or  planets,  to  atoms  of  sense: 
Nought  was  there  so  bulky,  but  there  it  could  lay  ; 
And  nought  so  etherial,  but  there  it  would  stay ; 
And  nought  so  reluctant,  but  in  it  must  go  ; 
All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 

The  first  thing  he  tried  was  the  head  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retained  all  the  wit  that  had  ever  been  there  ; 
As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a  leaf, 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent  thief; 
When  the  skull  rose  atoft  with  so  sudden  a  spell, 
As  to  bound  like  a  ball  on  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

Next  time  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 
With  a  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made  —  for  a  weight ; 
And  though  clad  in  armor  from  sandals  to  crown, 
The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 

A  long  row  of  alms-houses,  amply  endowed, 
By  a  well-esteemed  pharisee,  busy  and  proud, 
Now  loaded  one  scale,  while  the  other  was  prest 
By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the  chest ;  — 
Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce, 
And  down,  down,  the  farthing's  worth  came  with  a  bounce. 
10* 


!H  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 

Again,  he  performed  an  experiment  rare  ; 
A  monk,  with  austerities  bleeding  and  bare, 
Climbed  into  his  scale ;  in  the  other  was  laid 
The  heart  of  our  Howard,  now  partly  decayed; 
Whenhe  found,  with  surprise,  that  the  whole  of  his  brother 
Weighed  less,  by  some  pounds,  than  this  bit  of  the  other. 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 
He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than  one  plough. 
A  sword,  with  gilt  trappings,  rose  up  in  the  scale, 
Though  balanced  by  only  a  ten-penny  nail ; 
A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and  spear, 
Weighed  less  than  a  widow's  uncrystallized  tear. 
A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail, 
When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale. 
Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 
Ten  counsellors'  wigs  full  of  powder  and  curl, 
All  heaped  in  one  balance,  and  swinging  from  thence, 
Weighed  less  than  some  atoms  of  candor  and  sense; 
A  firsi-water  diamond,  with  brilliants  begirt, 
Than  one  good  potatoe.  just  washed  from  the  dirl ; 
Yet,  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  would  suffice, 
One  pearl  to  outweigh  —  't  was  the  "  pearl  of  great  price." 

At  last  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the  grate  ; 
With  the  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a  weight ; 
When  the  former  sprang  up  wit  »  so  strong  a  rebuff, 
That  it  made  a  vast  rent,  and  escaped  at  the  roof; 
Whence,  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 
And  sailed  up  aloft,  a  balloon  in  the  sky ; 
While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in,  so  mightily  fell, 
That  it  jerked  the  philosopher  out  of  his  cell. 

MORAL, 

Dear  reader,  if  e'er  self-deception  prevails, 
We  pray  you  to  try  The  Philosopher's  Scales. 


JANE    TAYLOR.  115 

But  if  they  are  lost  in  the  ruins  around, 
Perhaps  a  good  substitute  thus  may  be  found:  — 
Let  judgment  and  conscience  in  circles  be  cut, 
To  which  strings  of  thought  may  be  carefully  put: 
Let  these  be  made  even  with  caution  extreme, 
And  impartiality  use  for  a  beam : 
Then  bring  those  good  actions  which  pride  overates, 
And  tear  up  your  motives  to  serve  for  the  weights. 


THE  VIOLET. 

Down  in  the  green  and  shady  bed, 

A  modest  violet  grew  ; 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 

As  if  to  hide  from  view. 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower, 

Its  color  bright  and  fair ; 
It  might  have  graced  a  rosy  bower, 

Instead  of  hiding  there. 

Yet  there  it  was  content  to  bloom, 

In  modest  tints  arrayed; 
And  there  it  sheds  its  sweet  perfume, 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

Then  let  me  to  the  valley  go, 

This  pretty  flower  to  see, 
That  I  may  also  learn  to  grow 

In  sweet  humility. 


LJETITIA  ELIZABETH   LANDON.* 


ENGLAND  boasts  no  living  poetess  superior  to  Miss  Lan- 
don.  Hers  is  the  true  inspiration,  ascribed  by  the  ancients 
to  Phoebus,  by  us  to  Nature,  which  can 

"  Give  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation,  and  a  name." 

She  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree  that  loftiest  attribute 
of  genius,  creative  power  —  her  imagination  is  vivid,  varied, 
and  fertile,  and  in  depicting  scenes  of  passionate  love  or 
sorrowful  despair  she  is  unrivalled  by  any  modern  poet,  of 
either  sex.  We  do  not,  however,  think  these  love-strains 
worthy  of  all  praise.  It  is  true  that  she  has  painted  her 
pictures  to  the  mind's  eye,  with  great  delicacy  of  touch,  and 
many  of  them  possess  exquisite  grace  and  beauty  ;  still  we 
wish  she  had  not  so  frequently  made  choice  of  "  love  as  the 

*  There  are  several  volumes  of  Miss  Lan don's  poetical  works, 
besides  a  countless  number  of  fugitive  pieces  in  the  Annuals  and 
Periodicals  constantly  appearing.  The  volumes  have  all  been  re- 
published  in  America,  and  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  no 
English  writer  of  poetry  is  now  more  popularly  known  among  us 
than  L.  E.  L.  Her  lyrical  effusions  find  a  place  in  our  papers, 
from  Maine  to  Florida,  and  her  admirable  "  Poem  on  the  Death  of 
Mrs.  Hemans  "  has  given  her  a  warm  place  in  the  heart  of  many  a 
devoted  admirer  of  that  sweet  songstress. 


'- 


L.   E.   L.  117 

source  of  song." — She  somewhere  remarks,  as  an  apology 
for  the  amatory  character  of  her  early  writings,  that  "  for  a 
woman,  whose  influence  and  sphere  is  the  affections,  love 
is  the  peculiar  province."  And  so  it  is  —  but  then  she 
should,  like  Mrs.  Hemans,  have  extended  the  sphere  of  love 
to  the  conjugal,  parental,  filial,  and  fraternal  feelings. 
Yes,  the  true  love,  which  glows  with  the  holiest  and  bright- 
est light  in  the  garland  of  poesy  twined  by  a  female  hand, 
is  that  which  she  will  find  in  the  domestic  circle  —  the 
household  affections,  rather  than  the  tender  passion,  should 
be  her  theme. 

In  her  later  productions  Miss  Landon  has  greatly  im- 
proved. She  addresses  other  feelings  besides  love,  her 
style  has  more  simplicity  and  strength,  and  the  sentiment 
becomes  elevated  and  womanly  —  for  we  hold  that  the 
loftiest,  purest  and  best  qualities  of  our  nature,  the  moral 
feelings,  are  peculiarly  suited  to  the  genius  of  woman.  As 
she  is  still  young,  and  possesses  such  fervidness  and  activ- 
ity of  genius,  and  the  power  of  judgment  which  can  control 
the  exuberance  which  such  a  fancy  as  hers  is  inclined  to 
indulge,  there  is  every  reason  to  hope  better  and  richer 
treasures  from  her  muse,  than  any  yet  given  to  the  world. 

In  prose  Miss  Landon  has  succeeded  well,  though  we  do 
not  place  her  in  the  first  rank  of  the  popular  novelists  of 
the  day.  Her  "  Romance  and  Reality  "  is  an  interesting 
story,  and  many  of  her  short  sketches  and  tales,  which  are 
gracing  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  are  written  with  a 
charming  naivete"  and  sprightliness.  But  the  originality, 
pathos  and  deep  feeling,  which  characterize  much  of  her 
poetry,  are  seldom  found  in  her  prose.  Nature  has  gifted 
her  for  the  lyre,  and  we  hope  she  will  only  practice  prose 
writing  sufficiently  to  correct,  by  its  requisite  common 
sense  and  naturalness,  some  of  the  eccentricities  and  con- 
ceits which  a  vivid  imagination,  always  searching  for  the 
wonderful,  the  beautiful  and  the  exciting,  is  so  apt  to  in- 
dulge. 


118          ;THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Though  Miss  Landon  has  written  much  pathetic  poetry, 
depicting  the  woes  of  despairing  and  forsaken  lovers,  she 
is  not  describing  her  own  case.  It  is  said  that  she  is  very 
fond  of  society,  and  shines  among  the  fair,  fashionable  and 
fascinating  of  the  London  world  as  a  "  bright  particular 
star;"  —  and  that  never  has  a  disappointment  of  the  heart 
occurred  to  cloud  her  vivacity.  So,  no  gentle  reader  of  the 
" Improvasatrice,"  "The  Venetian  Bracelet,"  "Lost  Ple- 
iad," dec.  &c  —  must  identify  the  suffering  heroines  of  those 
poems  with  the  accomplished  writer.  But  there  is  one 
strain — "the  Lines  on  Life,"  which  we  have  selected,  that 
bear  the  seal  of  individual  and  real  feeling.  We  cannot 
but  think  that  in  these  strains  Miss  Landon  has  portrayed 
her  own  heart;  and  the  sincerity  and  simplicity  of  the  ex- 
pression, which  always  attends  real  feeling,  gives  to  this 
poem  a  strong,  and  stirring  interest  which  her  fancies  and 
fictions,  surpassingly  beautiful  as  they  are,  can  never  cre- 
ate. She  has  lived  in  the  sunshine  of  the  world  too  much, 
and  the  "Eastern  Tulip"  may  be  the  emblem,  of  her  poet- 
ical temperament ;  but  that  she  prizes  the  "  little  deep 
blue  violet "  so  well,  shows  that  her  heart  and  soul  are 
fraught  with  the  love  of  simple  nature,  and  with  those 
warm  and  sacred  emotions  that  will,  when  called  forth 

"  Make  the  loveliness  of  home." 

And  though — 

"  The  fire  within  the  poet's  heart 

Is  fire  unquenchable, 
Far  may  its  usual  curse  depart. 
And  light,  but  not  consume,  thy  heart ! 

Sweet  minstrel,  fare  thee  well! 
And  may  for  once  the  laurel  wreath 
Not  wither  all  that  grows  beneath  I" 


L.    E.    L.  119 


LINES  OP  LIFE. 

Orphan  in  my  first  years,  I  early  learnt 
To  make  my  heart  suffice  itself,  and  seek 
Support  and  sympathy  in  its  own  depths. 

WELL,  read  my  cheek,  and  watch  my  eye, 
Too  strictly  school'd  are  they, 

One  secret  of  my  soul  to  show, 
One  hidden  thought  betray. 

I  never  knew  the  time  my  heart 

Look'd  freely  from  my  brow  j 
It  once  was  checked  by  timidness, 

'  T  is  taught  by  caution  now. 

I  live  among  the  cold,  the  false, 

And  I  must  seem  like  themj 
And  such  I  am,  for  I  am  false 

As  those  I  most  condemn. 

I  teach  my  lip  its  sweetest  smile, 

My  tongue  its  softest  tone  j 
I  borrow  others'  likeness,  till 

Almost  I  lose  my  own. 

I  pass  through  flattery's  gilded  sieve, 

Whatever  I  would  say  ; 
In  social  life,  all,  like  the  blind, 

Must  learn  to  feel  their  way. 

I  check  my  thoughts  like  curbed  steeds 
That  struggle  with  the  rein  ; 


120  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

I  bid  my  feelings  sleep,  like  wrecks 
In  the  unfathom'd  main. 

I  hear  them  speak  of  love,  the  deep, 
The  true,— and  mock  the  name ; 

Mock  at  all  high  and  early  truth, 
And  I  too  do  the  same. 

I  hear  them  tell  some  touching  tale, 
I  swallow  down  the  tear ; 

I  hear  them  name  some  generous  deed, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  sneer. 

I  hear  the  spiritual,  the  kind, 
The  pure,  but  named  in  mirth ; 

Till  all  of  good,  ay,  even  hope, 
Seems  exiled  from  our  earth. 

And  one  fear,  withering  ridicule, 

Is  all  that  I  can  dread ; 
A  sword  hung  by  a  single  hair, 

Forever  o'er  the  head. 

We  bow  to  a  most  servile  faith, 

In  a  most  servile  fear ; 
While  none  among  us  dares  to  say 

What  none  will  choose  to  hear. 

And  if  we  dream  of  loftier  thoughts, 
In  weakness  they  are  gone ; 

And  indolence  and  vanity 
Rivet  our  fetters  on. 

Surely  I  was  not  born  for  this ! 

I  feel  a  loftier  mood 
Of  generous  impulse,  high  resolve, 

Steal  o'er  my  solitude ! 


L.  E.  L.  121 

I  gaze  upon  the  thousand  stars 

That  fill  the  midnight  sky  ; 
And  wish,  so  passionately  wish, 

A  light  like  theirs  on  high* 

I  have  such  eagerness  of  hope 

To  benefit  my  kindj 
And  feel  as  if  immortal  power 

Were  given  to  my  mind. 

I  think  on  that  eternal  fame. 

The  sun  of  earthly  gloom. 
Which  makes  the  gloriousness  of  death, 

The  future  of  the  tomb  — 

That  earthly  future,  the  faint  sign 

Of  a  more  heavenly  one ; 
—  A  step,  a  word,  a  voice,  a  look,  — 

Alas  !  my  dream  is  done. 

And  earth,  and  earth's  debasing  stain, 

Again  is  on  my  soul  j 
And  I  am  but  a  nameless  part 

Of  a  most  worthless  whole. 

Why  write  I  this  ?  because  my  heart 

Towards  the  future  springs, 
That  future  where  it  loves  to  soar 

On  more  than  eagle  wings. 

The  present,  it  is  but  a  speck 

In  that  eternal  time, 
In  which  my  lost  hopes  find  a  home, 

My  spirit  knows  its  clime. 

.: 

Oh !  not  myself,  —  for  what  am  I  ?  — 
The  worthless  and  the  weak, 
11 


122  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Whose  every  thought  of  self  should  raise 
A  blush  to  burn  my  cheek. 

But  song  has  touch'd  my  lips  with  fire, 
And  made  my  heart  a  shrine ; 

For  what,  although  alloy 'd,  debased, 
Is  in  itself  divine. 

I  am,  myself,  but  a  vile  link 

Amid  life's  weary  chain ; 
But  I  have  spoken  hallow'd  words, 

Oh  do  not  say  in  vain  I 

My  first,  my  last,  my  only  wish, — 
Say,  will  my  charmed  chords 

Wake  to  the  morning  light  of  fame, 
And  breathe  again  my  words  ? 

Will  the  young  maiden,  when  her  tears, 
Alone  in  moonlight  shine  — 

Tears  for  the  absent  and  the  loved  — 
Murmur  some  song  of  mine  ? 

Will  the  pale  youth,  by  his  dim  lamp, 

Himself  a  dying  flame, 
From  many  an  antique  scroll  beside, 

Choose  that  which  bears  my  name  ? 

Let  music  make  less  terrible 

The  silence  of  the  dead; 
I  care  not,  so  my  spirit  last 

Long  after  life  has  fled. 


L,  K  L.  123 


FEMALE  FAITH. 

SHE  loved  you  when,  the  sunny  light 

Of  bliss  was  on  your  brow  j 
That  bliss  has  sunk  in  sorrow's  night, 

And  yet  she  loves  you  now. 

She  loved  you  when  your  joyous  tone 

Taught  every  heart  to  thrill; 
The  sweetness  of  that  tongue  is  gone, 

And  yet  —  she  loves  you  still. 

She  loved  you  when  you  proudly  stept 

The  gayest  of  the  gay ; 
That  pride  the  blight  of  time  hath  swept, 

Unlike  her  love,  away. 

She  loved  you  when  your  home  and  heart 
Of  fortune's  smile  could  boast; 

She  saw  that  smile  decay  —  depart  — 
And  then  she  loved  you  most. 

Oh,  such  the  generous  faith  that  glows 

In  woman's  gentle  breast ; 
'Tis  like  that  star  that  stays  and  glows 

Alone  in  night's  dark  vest  j 

That  stays  because  each  other  ray 

Has  left  the  lonely  shore, 
And  that  the  wanderer  on  his  way 

Then  wants  her  light  the  more. 


124  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


MUSINGS. 

METHINKS  we  must  have  known  some  former  state 
More  glorious  than  our  present,  and  the  heart 
Is  haunted  with  dim  memories,  shadows  left 
By  past  magnificence ;  and  hence  we  pine 
With  vain  aspirings,  hopes  that  fill  the  eyes 
With  bitter  tears  for  their  own  vanity. 
Remembrance  makes  the  poet ;  Jt  is  the  past 
Lingering  within  him,  with  a  keener  sense 
Than  is  upon  the  thoughts  of  common  men, 
Of  what  has  been,  that  fills  the  actual  world 
With  unreal  likenesses  of  lovely  shapes, 
That  were  and  are  uot ;  and  the  fairer  they, 
The  more  their  contrast  with  existing  things ; 
The  more  his  power,  the  greater  is  his  grief. 
—  Are  we  then  fallen  from  some  noble  star, 
Whose  consciousness  is  as  an  unknown  curse, 
And  we  feel  capable  of  happiness 
Only  to  know  it  is  not  of  our  sphere  ? 

I  have  sung  passionate  songs  of  beating  hearts; 
Perhaps  it  had  been  better  they  had  drawn 
Their  inspiration  from  an  inward  source. 
Had  I  known  even  an  unhappy  love, 
It  would  have  flung  an  interest  round  life 
Mine  never  knew.     This  is  an  empty  wish  ; 
Our  feelings  are  not  fires  to  light  at  will 
Our  nature's  fine  and  subtle  mysteries ; 
We  may  control  them,  but  may  not  create, 
And  love  less  than  its  fellows.     I  have  fed 
Perhaps  too  much  upon  the  lotos  fruits 
Imagination  yields,  —  fruits  which  unfit 
The  palate  for  the  more  substantial  food 


L.  E.  L.  125 

Of  our  own  land  —  reality.    I  made 

My  heart  too  like  a  temple  for  a  home ; 

My  thoughts  were  birds  of  paradise,  that  breathed 

The  airs  of  heaven,  but  died  on  touching  earth. 

—  The  knight  whose  deeds  were  stainless  as  his  crest, 
Who  made  my  name  his  watchword  in  the  field ; 
The  poet  with  immortal  words,  whose  heart 

I  shared  with  beauty ;  or  the  patriot, 

Whose  eloquence  was  power,  who  made  my  smile 

His  recompense  amid  the  toil  which  shaped 

A  nation's  destiny  :  these,  such  as  these, 

The  glorified  —  the  passionate — the  brave  — 

In  these  I  might  have  found  the  head  and  heart 

I  could  have  worship'd.     Where  are  such  as  these  ? 

—  Not  mid  gay  cavaliers,  who  make  the  dance 
Pleasant  with  graceful  flatteries ;  whose  words 
A  passing  moment  might  light  up  my  cheek, 
But  haunted  not  my  solitude.     The  fault 

Has  been  my  own ;  perhaps  I  ask'd  too  much :  — 
Yet  let  me  say,  what  firmly  I  believe, 
Love  can  be  —  ay,  and  is.     I  held  that  Love 
Which  chooseth  from  a  thousand  only  one, 
To  be  the  object  of  that  tenderness 
Natural  to  every  heart ;  which  can  resign 
Its  own  best  happiness  for  one  dear  sake ; 
Can  bear  with  absence;  hath  no  part  in  Hope, — 
For  Hope  is  somewhat  selfish, — Love  is  not,  — 
And  doth  prefer  another  to  itself. 
Unchangeable  and  generous,  what,  like  Love, 
Can  melt  away  the  dross  of  worldliness. 
Can  elevate,  refine,  and  make  the  heart 
Of  that  pure  gold  which  is  the  fitting  shrine 
For  fire,  as  sacred  as  e'er  came  from  heaven? 
No  more  of  this :  —  one  word  may  read  my  heart, 
And  that  one  word  is  utter  weariness ! 
Yet  sometimes  I  look  round  with  vain  regret, 
11* 


126  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  think  I  will  re-string  my  lute,  and  nerve 
My  woman's  hand  for  nobler  enterprise ; 
But  the  day  never  comes.     Alas !  we  make 
A  ladder  of  our  thoughts,  where  angels  step, 
But  sleep  ourselves  at  the  foot :  odr.high  resolves 
Look  down  upon  our  slumbering  acts. 


THE    POET'S    POWER. 

OH,  never  had  the  poet's  lute  a  hope, 

An  aim  so  glorious  as  it  now  may  have, 

In  this  our  social  state,  where  petty  cares 

And  mercenary  interests  only  look 

Upon  the  present's  littleness,  and  shrink 

From  the  bold  future,  and  the  stately  past, — 

Where  the  smooth  surface  of  society 

Is  polish'd  by  deceit,  and  the  warm  heart 

With  all  its  kind  affections'  early  flow, 

Flung  back  upon  itself,  forgets  to  beat, 

At  least  for  others:  — 't  is  the  poet's  gift 

To  melt  these  frozen  waters  into  tears, 

By  sympathy  with  sorrows  not  our  own, 

By  wakening  memory  with  those  mournful  notes, 

Whose  music  is  the  thoughts  of  early  years, 

When  truth  was  on  the  lip,  and  feelings  wore 

The  sweetness  and  the  freshness  of  their  morn. 

Young  poet,  if  thy  dreams  have  not  such  hope 

To  purify,  refine,  exalt,  subdue, 

To  touch  the  selfish,  and  to  shame  the  vain 

Out  of  themselves,  by  gentle  mournfulnesSj 

Or  chords  that  rouse  some  aim  of  enterprise, 

Lofty  and  pure,  and  meant  for  general  good  ; 


L.  E.  L.  127 

If  thou  hast  not  some  power  that  may  direct 
The  mind  from  the  mean  round  of  daily  life. 
Waking  affections  that  might  else  have  slept, 
Or  high  resolves,  the  petrified  before, 
Or  rousing  in  that  mind  a  finer  sense 
Of  inward  and  external  loveliness, 
Making  imagination  serve  as  guide 
To  all  of  heaven  that  yet  remains  on  earth,  — 
Thine  is  a  useless  lute  :  break  it,  and  die. 


THE  ADIEU. 

WE'LL  miss  her  at  the  morning  hour, 

When  leaves  and  eyes  unclose ; 
When  sunshine  calls  the  dewy  flower 

To  waken  from  repose ; 
For,  like  the  singing  of  a  bird,, 

When  first  the  sunbeams  fall, 
The  gladness  of  her  voice  was  heard 

The  earliest  of  us  all. 

We'll  miss  her  at  the  evening  time, 

For  then  her  voice  and  lute 
Best  loved  to  sing  some  sweet  old  rhyme, 

When  other  sounds  were  mute. — 
Twined  round  the  ancient  window-seat, 

While  she  was  singing  there, 
The  jasmine  from  outside  would  meet, 

And  wreathe  her  fragrant  hair. 

We'll  miss  her  when  we  gather  round 

Our  blazing  hearth  at  night, 
When  ancient  memories  abound, 

Or  hopes  where  all  unite ; 


128  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  pleasant  talk  of  years  to  come  — 
Those  years  our  fancies  frame. 

Ah  !  she  has  now  another  home, 
And  bears  another  name. 

Her  heart  is  not  with  our  old  hall, 

Nor  with  the  things  of  yore ; 
And  yet,  methinks  she  must  recall 

What  was  so  dear  before. 
She  wept  to  leave  the  fond  roof  where 

She  had  been  loved  so  long, 
Though  glad  the  peal  upon  the  air, 

And  gay  the  bridal  throng. 

Yes,  memory  has  honey  cells, 

And  some  of  them  are  ours ; 
For  in  the  sweetest  of  them  dwells 

The  dream  of  early  hours. 
The  hearth,  the  hall,  the  window-seat, 

Will  bring  us  to  her  mind ; 
In  yon  wide  world  she  cannot  meet 

All  that  she  left  behind. 

Loved,  and  beloved,  her  own  sweet  will 

It  was  that  made  her  fate ; 
She  has  a  fairy  home  —  but  still 

Our  own  seems  desolate. 
We  may  not  wish  her  back  again, 

Not  for  her  own  dear  sake  : 
Oh,  love !   to  form  one  happy  chain, 

How  many  thou  must  break ! 


L.  E.  L.  129 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

THERE  is  a  flower,  a  magical  flower, 

On  which  love  hath  laid  a  fairy  power ; 

Gather  it  on  the  eve  of  St.  John, 

When  the  clock  of  the  village  is  tolling  one  ; 

Let  no  look  be  turned,  no  word  be  said, 

And  lay  the  rose-leaves  under  your  head  ; 

Your  sleep  will  be  light,  and  pleasant  your  rest, 

For  your  visions  will  be  of  the  youth  you  love  best. 

Four  days  I  had  not  my  own  love  seen, — 

Where,  sighed  I,  can  my  wanderer  have  been? 

I  thought  I  would  gather  the  magical  flower, 

And  see  him  at  least  in  my  sleeping  hour !  — 

St.  John's  Eve  came :  to  the  garden  I  flew, 

Where  the  white  roses  shone  with  the  silver  dew; 

The  nightingale  sang  as  I  passed  along  — 

I  startled  to  hear  even  her  sweet  song ; 

The  sky  was  bright  with  moon  and  star  shine, 

And  the  wind  was  sweet  as  a  whisper  of  thine, 

Dear  love  !  for  whose  sake  I  stripped  the  tree-rose, 

And  softly  and  silently  stole  to  repose. 

No  look  I  turned,  and  no  word  I  said, 

But  laid  the  white  roses  under  my  head. 

Oh,  sweet  was  the  dream  that  came  to  me  then ! 
I  dreamt  of  a  lonely  and  lovely  glen ; 
There  was  a  clear  and  beautiful  sky, 
Such  as  is  seen  in  the  blue  July ; 
To  the  north  was  a  forest  of  darkling  pine; 
To  the  south  were  hills  all  green  with  the  vine, 
Where  the  ruby  clusters  sparkled  like  gems 
Seen  upon  princely  diadems ; 


130  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

On  the  rocks  were  goats  as  white  as  snow, 

And  the  sheep-bell  was 'heard  in  the  valley  below; 

And  like  a  nest  in  the  chestnut's  shade, 

As  just  for  love  and  contentment  made, 

A  little  cottage  stood,  and  the  tree 

Shadowed  it  over  most  gracefully ; 

A  white  rose  grew  up  beside  the  door, 

The  porch  with  the  blossoms  was  covered  o'er; 

Methought  it  was  yours  —  you  were  standing  by : 

You  welcomed  me,  and  I  felt  your  sigh 

Warm  on  my  cheek,  and  our  lips  met,  — 

On  mine  the  touch  is  thrilling  yet ! 

But,  alas  !  I  awakened,  and  all  I  can  do 

Is  to  tell  the  sweet  dream,  my  own  Love,  to  you ! 


CHANGE. 

AND  this  is  what  is  left  of  youth!  .  .  . 

There  were  two  boys,  who  were  bred  up  together, 

Shared  the  same  bed,  and  fed  at  the  same. board ; 

Each  tried  the  other's  sport,  from  their  first  chace, 

Young  hunters  of  the  butterfly  and  bee, 

To  when  they  followed  the  fleet  hare,  and  tried 

The  swiftness  of  the  bird.     They  lay  beside 

The  silver  trout-stream,  watching  as  the  sun 

Played  on  the  bubbles  ;  shared  each  in  the  store 

Of  cither's  garden  ;  and  together  read 

Of  him,  the  master  of  the  desert  isle, 

Till  a  low  hut,  a  gun,  and  a  canoe, 

Bounded  their  wishes.     Or  if  ever  came 

A  thought  of  future  days,  'twas  but  to  say 

That  they  would  share  each  other's  lot,  and  do 

Wonders,  no  doubt.    But  this  was  vain :  they  parted 


L.  E.  L.  131 

With  promises  of  long  remembrance,  words 

Whose  kindness  was  the  heart's,  and  those  warm  tears 

Hidden  like  shame  by  the  young  eyes  which  shed  them, 

But  which  are  thought  upon  in  after  years. 

As  what  we  would  give  worlds  to  shed  once  more. 

They  met  again,  —  but  different  from  themselves, 
At  least  what  each  remembered  of  themselves : 
The  one  proud  as  a  soldier  of  his  rank, 
And  of  his  many  battles;  and  the  other 
Proud  of  his  Indian  wealth,  and  of  the  skill 
And  toil  which  gathered  it;  each  with  a  brow 
And  heart  alike  darkened  by  years  and  care. 
They  met  with  cold  words,  and  yet  colder  looks : 
Each  was  changed  in  himself,  and  yet  each  thought 
The  other  only  changed,  himself  the  same. 
And  coldness  bred  dislike,  and  rivalry 
Came  like  the  pestilence  o'er  some  sweet  thoughts, 
That  lingered  yet,  healthy  and  beautiful, 
Amid  dark  and  unkindly  ones.     And  they, 
Whose  boyhood  had  not  known  one  jarring  word, 
Were  strangers  in  their  age  :  if  their  eyes  met, 
'T  was  but  to  look  contempt,  and  when  they  spoke. 
Their  speech  was  wormwood  !..-.. 
....  And  this,  this  is  life  ! 


132  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 


WOMAN'S  DESTINY. 

"  I  am  a  woman :  —  tell  me  not  of  fame  ! 

The  eagle's  wing  may  sweep  the  stormy  path, 

And  fling  back  arrows,  where  the  dove  would  die. 

Look  on  those  flowers  near  yon  acacia  tree  — 

The  lily  of  the  valley  — mark  how  pure 

The  snowy  blossoms,  —  and  how  soft  a  breath 

Is  almost  hidden  by  the  large  dark  leaves. 

Not  only  have  those  delicate  flowers  a  gift 

Of  sweetness  and  of  beauty,  but  the  root  — 

A  healing  power  dwells  there ;  fragrant  and  fair, 

But  dwelling  still  in  some  beloved  shade. 

Is  not  this  woman's  emblem?  —  she  whose  smile 

Should  only  make  the  loveliness  of  home  — 

Who  seeks  support  and  shelter  from  man's  heart, 

And  pays  it  with  affection  quiet,  deep,  — 

And  in  his  sickness  —  sorrow  —  with  an  aid 

He  did  not  deem  in  aught  so  fragile  dwelt. 

Alas !  this  has  not  been  my  destiny. 

Again  I'll  borrow  Summer's  eloquence. 

Yon  Eastern  tulip  —  that  is  emblem  mine; 

Ay!  it  has  radiant  colors  —  every  leaf 

Is  as  a  gem  from  its  own  country's  mines. 

JT  is  redolent  with  sunshine  j  but  with  noon 

It  has  begun  to  wither  :  — look  within, 

It  has  a  wasted  bloom,  a  burning  heart; 

It  has  dwelt  too  much  in  the  open  day, 

And  so  have  I ;  and  both  must  droop  and  die ! 

I  did  not  choose  my  gift :  —  too  soon  my  heart. 

Watch-like,  had  pointed  to  a  later  hour 

Than  time  had  reach'd  ;  and  as  my  years  pass'd  on, 

Shadows  and  floating  visions  grew  to  thoughts, 

And  thoughts  found  words. the  passionate  words  of  song, 

And  all  to  me  was  poetry. 


L.  E.  L.  133 


SONG. 

FAREWELL  !  —  we  shall  not  meet  again 

As  we  are  parting  now  ! 
I  must  my  beating  heart  restrain  — 

Must  veil  my  burning  brow! 
Oh,  I  must  coldly  learn  to  hide 

One  thought,  all  else  above  — 
Must  call  upon  my  woman's  pride 

To  hide  my  woman's  love ! 
Check  dreams  I  never  may  avow; 
Be  free,  be  careless,  cold  as  thou ! 

Oh!  those  are  tears  of  bitterness, 

Wrung  from  the  breaking  heart, 
When  two  blest  in  their  tenderness. 

Must  learn  to  live  —  apart ! 
But  what  are  they  to  that  lone  sigh, 

That  cold  and  fixed  despair, 
That  weight  of  wasting  agony 

It  mu.t  be  mine  to  bear? 
Methinks  I  should  not  thus  repine, 
If  I  had  but  one  vow  of  thine. 

Farewell !  we  have  not  often  met, — 

We  may  not  meet  again ; 
But  on  my  heart  the  seal  is  set 

Love  never  sets  in  vain ! 
Fruitless  as  constancy  may  be, 
No  chance,  no  change,  may  turn  from  thec 
One  who  has  loved  thee  wildly,  well,  — 
But  whose  first  love-vow  breathed  —  farewell. 
12 


134  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


MONT  BLANC. 

"  Heaven  knows  our  travellers  have  sufficiently  alloyed  the  beau- 
tiful, and  profaned  the  sublime,  by  associating  these  with  themselves, 
the  common-place,  and  the  ridiculous;  but  out  upon  them,  thus  to 
tread  on  the  gray  hair  of  centuries,  —  on  the  untrodden  snows  of 
Mont  Blanc." 

THOU  monarch  of  the  open  air, 

Thou  mighty  temple  given 

For  morning's  earliest  of  light, 

And  evening's  last  of  heaven. 

The  vapor  from  the  marsh,  the  smoke 

From  crowded  cities  sent, 

Are  purified  before  they  reach 

Thy  loftier  element. 

Thy  hues  are  not  of  earth,  but  heaven  : 

Only  the  sunset  rose 

Hath  leave  to  fling  a  crimson  dye 

Upon  thy  stainless  snows. 

Now  out  on  those  adventurers 

Who  scaled  thy  breathless  height. 

And  made  thy  pinnacle,  Mont  Blanc. 

A  thing  for  common  sight. 

Before  that  human  step  had  felt 

Its  sully  on  thy  brow, 

The  glory  of  thy  forehead  made 

A  shrine  to  those  below : 

Men  gazed  upon  thee  as  a  star. 

And  turned  to  earth  again, 

With  dreams  like  thine  own  floating  clouds. 

The  vague  but  not  the  vain. 


L.   E.   L.  135 

No  feelings  are  less  vain  than  those 

That  bear  the  mind  away. 

Till  blent  with  nature's  mysteries 

It  half  forgets  its  clay. 

It  catches  loftier  impulses  ; 

And  owns  a  nobler  power  ; 

The  poet  and  philosopher 

Are  born  of  such  an  hour. 

But  now,  where  may  we  seek  a  place 

For  any  spirit's  dream ; 

Our  steps  have  been  o'er  every  soil, 

Our  sails  o'er  every  stream. 

Those  isles,  the  beautiful  Azores, 

The  fortunate,  the  fair ! 

We  looked  for  their  perpetual  spring 

To  find  it  was  not  there. 

Bright  El  Dorado,  land  of  gold, 

We  have  so  sought  for  thee, 

There's  not  a  spot  in  all  the  globe 

Where  such  a  land  can  be. 

How  pleasant  were  the  wild  beliefs, 

That  dwelt  in  legends  old, 

Alas !  to  our  posterity 

Will  no  such  tales  be  told. 

We  know  too  much,  scroll  after  scroll 

Weighs  down  our  weary  shelves ; 

Our  only  point  of  ignorance 

Is  centered  in  ourselves. 

Alas !  for  thy  past  mystery, 

For  thine  untrodden  snow, 

Nurse  of  the  tempest,  hadst  thou  none 

To  guard  thy  outraged  brow  ? 

Thy  summit,  once  the  unapproached, 

Hath  human  presence  owned, 

With  the  first  step  upon  thy  crest, 

Mont  Blanc  thou  wert  dethron'd. 


136  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


PORTRAIT  PAINTING. 

Divinest  art,  the  stars  above 
Were  fated  on  thy  birth  to  shine ; 

Oh,  born  of  beauty  and  of  love, 
What  early  poetry  was  thine  1 

THE  softness  of  Ionian  night 

Upon  Ionian  summer  lay, 
One  planet  gave  its  vesper  light, 

Enough  to  guide  a  lover's  way  ; 
And  gave  the  fountain  as  it  play'd 

The  semblance  of  a  silvery  shower, 
And  as  its  waters  fell,  they  made 

A  music  meet  for  such  an  hour: 
That,  and  the  tones  the  gentle  wind 

Won  from  the  leaf,  as  from  a  lute 
In  natural  melody  combined, 

Now  that  all  ruder  sound  was  mute ; 
And  odors  floated  on  the  air, 

As  many  a  nymph  had  just  unbound 
The  wreath  that  braided  her  dark  hair, 

And  flung  the  fragrant  tresses  round. 

Pillow'd  on  violet  leaves,  which  prest 

Fill'd  the  sweet  chamber  with  their  sighs, 
Lull'd  by  the  lyre's  low  notes  to  rest, 

A  Grecian  youth  in  slumber  lies ; 
And  at  his  side  a  maiden  stands, 

The  dark  hair  braided  on  her  brow, 
The  lute  within  her  slender  hands, 

But  hush'd  is  all  its  music  now; 
She  would  not  wake  him  from  his  dreams, 

Although  she  has  so  much  to  say, 


L.  E.  L.  137 

Although  the  morning's  earliest  beams 

Will  see  her  warrior  far  away  : 
How  fond  and  earnest  is  the  gaze 

Upon  these  sleeping  features  thrown, 
She  who  yet  never  dared  to  raise 

Her  timid  eyes  to  meet  his  own. 

She  bends  her  lover's  rest  above. 

Thoughtful  with  gentle  hopes  and  fears, 
And  that  unutterable  love 

Which  never  yet  spoke  but  in  tears ! 
She  would  not  that  those  tears  should  fall 

Upon  the  cherish'd  sleeper's  face ; 
She  turns  and  sees  upon  the  wall 

Its  imaged  shade,  its  perfect  grace. 
With  eager  hand  she  mark'd  each  line  — 

The  shadowy  brow,  the  arching  head  — 
Till  some  creative  power  divine 

Love's  likeness  o'er  Love's  shadow  spread. 
Since  then,  what  passion  and  what  power 

Has  dwelt  upon  the  painter's  art ! 
How  has  it  soothed  the  absent  hour, 

With  looks  that  wear  life's  loveliest  part ! 


12* 


138  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  HEMANS. 

"  The  rose  — the  glorious  rose  is  pone." 

Nightingale's  Death.  Song. 

BRING  flowers  to  crown  the  cup  and  lute,  — 

Bring  flowers,  —  the  bride  is  near ; 
Bring  flowers  to  soothe  the  captive's  cell,  — 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  the  bier ! 
Bring  flowers  !  thus  said  the  lovely  song ; 

And  shall  they  not  be  brought 
To  her  who  linked  the  offering 

With  feeling  and  with  thought  ? 

Bring  flowers,  —the  perfumed  and  the  pure,— 

Those  with  the  morning  dew, 
A  sigh  in  every  fragrant  leaf, 

A  tear  on  every  hue. 
So  pure,  so  sweet  thy  life  has  been, 

So  filling  earth  and  air 
With  odors  and  with  loveliness, 

Till  common  scenes  grew  fair. 

Thy  song  around  our  daily  path 

Flung  beauty  born  of  dreams, 
That  shadows  on  the  actual  world 

The  spirit's  sunny  gleams. 
Mysterious  influence,  that  to  earth 

Brings  down  the  Heaven  above, 
And  fills  the  universal  heart 

With  universal  love. 

Such  gifts  were  thine,  —  as  from  the  block, 

The  unformed  and  the  cold, 
The  sculptor  calls  to  breathing  life 
Some  shape  of  perfect  mould, 


L.  E.  L.  139 

So  thou  from  common  thoughts  and  things 

Didst  call  a  charmed  song, 
Which  on  a  sweet  and  swelling  tide 

Bore  the  full  soul  along. 

And  thou  from  far  and  foreign  lands 

Didst  bring  back  many  a  tone, 
And  giving  such  new  music  still, 

A  music  of  thine  own. 
A  lofty  strain  of  generous  thoughts. 

And  yet  subdued  and  sweet,  — 
An  angel's  song,  who  sings  of  earth, 

Whose  cares  are  at  his  feet. 

And  yet  thy  song  is  sorrowful, 

Its  beauty  is  not  bloom; 
The  hopes  of  which  it  breathes,  are  hopes 

That  look  beyond  the  tomb ; 
Thy  song  is  sorrowful  as  winds 

That  wander  o'er  the  plain, 
And  ask  for  Summer's  vanished  flowers, 

And  ask  for  them  in  vain. 

Ah  !  dearly  purchased  is  the  gift, 

The  gift  of  song  like  thine; 
A  fated  doom  is  hers  who  stands 

The  priestess  of  the  shrine. 
The  crowd  —  they  only  see  the  crown, 

They  only  hear  the  hymn ;  — 
They  mark  not  that  the  cheek  is  pale, 

And  that  the  eye  is  dim. 

Wound  to  a  pitch  too  exquisite, 

The  soul's  fine  chords  are  wrung ; 
With  misery  and  melody 

They  are  too  highly  strung. 
The  heart  is  made  too  sensitive 

Life's  daily  pain  to  bear ; 


140  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

It  beats  in  music,  but  it  beats 
Beneath  a  deep  despair. 

It  never  meets  the  love  it  paints, 

The  love  for  which  it  pines; 
Too  much  of  Heaven  is  in  the  faith 

That  such  a  heart  enshrines. 
The  meteor  wreath  the  poet  wears 

Must  make  a  lonely  lot ; 
It  dazzles,  only  to  divide, 

From  those  who  wear  it  not. 

Didst  thou  not  tremble  a£  thy  fame, 

And  loathe  its  bitter  prize, 
While  what  to  others  triumph  seemed, 

To  thee  was  sacrifice  ? 
Oh,  Flower  brought  from  Paradise, 

To  this  cold  world  of  ours, 
Shadows  of  beauty  such  as  thine 

Recall  thy  native  bowers. 

Let  others  thank  thee  —  't  was  for  them 

Thy  soft  leaves  thou  didst  wreathe ; 
The  red  rose  wastes  itself  in  sighs 

Whose  sweetness  others  breathe ! 
And  they  have  thanked  thee  —  many  a  lip 

Has  asked  of  thine  for  words, 
When  thoughts,  Life's  finer  thoughts,  have  touched 

The  spirit's  inmost  chords. 

How  many  loved  and  honored  thee 

Who  only  knew  thy  name  ; 
Which  o'er  the  weary  working  world 

Like  starry  music  came  ? 
With  what  still  hours  of  calm  delight 

Thy  songs  and  image  blend; 
I  cannot  choose  but  think  thou  wert 

An  old  familiar  friend. 


L.  E.  L.  141 


The  charms  that  dwelt  in  songs  of  thine 

My  inmost  spirit  moved ; 
And  yet  I  feel  as  thou  hadst  been 

Not  half  enough  beloved. 
They  say  that  thou  wert  faint  and  worn 

With  suffering  and  with  care  ; 
What  music  must  have  filled  the  soul 

That  had  so  much  to  spare  ! 

Oh!  weary  one!  since  thou  art  laid 

Within  thy  mother's  breast  — 
The  green,  the  quiet  mother-earth  — 

Thrice  blessed  be  thy  rest  ! 
Thy  heart  is  left  within  our  hearts, 

Although  Life's  pang  is  o'er ; 
But  the  quick  tears  are  in  my  eyes, 

And  I  can  write  no  more. 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON.' 


THE  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  is  one  of  those  favored  mortals 
who,  by  birthright,  inherit  talents,  and  therefore,  for  her  to 
become  an  authoress  was  not  considered  wonderful,  as  is 
usually  the  case  with  female  writers.  The  grand-daughter 
of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  could  be  no  ordinary  woman. 
Distinguished  for  beauty  and  gracefulness,  among  the  gay 
circle  in  which  she  was  native,  as  the  "queenly  Dahlia"  is 
among  the  garden  flowers,  she  added  to  the  list  of  her  ac- 
complishments, that  more  dazzling,  because  less  common 
endowment,  genius,  early  displayed,  and  hitherto  stead- 
ily improving.  At  the  age  of  twelve  years  she  composed 
"The  Dandies'  Ball,"  a  poetical  description  of  a  little  book, 
then  quite  the  rage.  —  "The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,"  was 
her  next  production,  issued  in  1829,  about  two  years  after 
her  marriage.  Since  that  period  she  has  published  seve- 
ral works,  besides  editing  for  some  time  past  "  The  Court 
Journal." — The  longest  Poem  of  Mrs.  Norton's—"  The  Un- 

*  There  is  a  handsome  English  edition  of  her  Poems  in  two  vol- 
umes :  only  a  small  selection  from  these  have  been  reprinted  in 
America.  Her  Prose  works,  "  The  Wife,  and  Woman's  Reward," 
"  The  Coquette,"  and  her  shorter  stories  are  all  familiar  to  Amer- 
ican readers,  as  well  as  to  the  London  public ;  and  her  fugitive  lyri- 
cal compositions  are  very  popular. 


MRS.  NORTON.  143 

dying  One,"  was  evidently  written  with  much  thought ;  the 
inclination  of  her  mind  leading  her,  doubtless,  to  the  effort, 
as  one  which  would  be  more  distinguished,  than  short  lyr- 
ical compositions.  The  subject  was  not  well  suited  to  her 
powers  ;  it  requires  the  deep,  daring  energy  of  a  Byron  or  a 
Shelley  to  portray  the  dark,  despairing  and  unholy  passions 
which  such  a  being  as  Isbal  must  have  indulged.  Never- 
theless, our  poetess  has  not  failed  —  the  story  is  skil- 
fully drawn  out,  and  there  are  many  touches  of  tenderness 
and  love  which  are  inimitable.  But  we  better  like  her 
short  poems :  in  these  she  displays  more  freedom  and  grace, 
more  of  the  true  poetical  fervor  which  can  invest  com- 
mon feelings  and  natural  objects  with  the  light  of  song 
making  treasures  of  these  simple  and  humble  things  which 
the  heart  will  hoard,  and  the  memory  retain.  There  is  a 
resemblance  between  the  poetic  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton and  those  of  Barry  Cornwall  —  both  excel  in  the  de- 
scriptive ;  both  have  great  facility  of  versification ;  and 
there  is  a  similar  delicacy  in  their  taste  and  fancy,  But 
Barry  Cornwall  inclines  sometimes  to  odd  conceits  and 
quaint  old  phrases,  the  affectation  or  the  effect  of  more  pro- 
found learning  than  any  fair  poetess  would  be  likely  to  dis- 
play. Yet  Mrs.  Norton  has  a  mind  which  might  be  greatly 
improved  by  study.  Hers  is  not  that  fire-fly  genius  which 
shines  sweetly  on  the  fresh  grass,  or  resting  on  a  rose-bush 
in  full  blossom  ;  but  which  is  chilled  and  sunk  by  the  first 
dark  storm  or  cold  frost.  She  has  strength  as  well  as 
beauty  and  sprightliness  in  her  lay.  Some  of  her  prose 
writings  show  great  power  of  portraying  character,  as 
well  as  of  delineating  the  manners  of  society.  In  short, 
few  of  our  literary  ladies  at  her  age.  twenty-seven,  have 
written  so  much  and  so  well  as  Mrs.  Norton.  She  has 
made  literature  her  amusement  along  the  rose-strewed  path 
of  life  —  she  will  find  it  a  resource  and  solace  amid  its 
thorns. 


144  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


ALL  IS  FORGOTTEN. 

How  strange  lhat  earth,  our  earth  should  share 

So  little  in  our  crime  and  care ! 

The  billows  of  the  treacherous  main 

Gape  for  the  wreck,  and  close  again 

With  daring  smiles,  as  if  the  deep 

Had  whelm'd  not  with  eternal  sleep 

Many  and  many  a  warm  young  heart, 

Which  swell'd  to  meet,  and  bled  to  part. 

The  battle-plain  its  verdant  breast 

Will  show  in  bright  and  sunny  vest, 

Although  its  name  is  now  a  word, 

Through  sobs,  and  moans,  and  wailing  heard ; 

And  many  mourn'd  for  from  afar, 

There  died  the  writhing  death  of  w;ir. 

Yea,  e'en  the  stream,  by  whose  cool  side, 

Lay  those  who  thirsted  for  its  tide, 

Yearning  for  some  young  hand  of  yore, 

Wont  in  bright  hours,  with  smiles  to  pour 

The  mantling  wine  of  him  whose  blood 

Is  mixing  with  the  glassy  flood  — 

Ev'n  that  pure  fountain  gushes  by 

With  all  its  former  brilliancy  ; 

Nor  bears  with  it  one  tint  to  show 

How  crimson  it  began  to  flow. 

And  thus  an  echo  takes  the  tone 

Of  agony  ;  and  when  't  is  gone, 

Air,  earth  and  sea  forget  the  sound, 

And  all  is  still  and  silent  round. 

And  thus  upon  the  cherished  grave 

The  sunbeams  smile,  the  branches  wave  j 

And  all  our  tears  for  those  who  now  are  not, 

Sink  in  the  flowery  turf —  and  are  forgot ! 


MRS.  NORTON.  145 


WE  SHALL  MEET  NO  MORE  ! 

WE  shall  meet  no  more  on  the  sunny  hill. 

Where  the  lonely  wild  flower  springs  and  dies  ; 
We  shall  meet  no  more  by  the  murmuring  rill, 

Where  the  blue  cool  waters  idly  rise ; 
The  sunshine  and  flowers  all  bright  remain 

In  their  lonely  beauty,  as  of  yore  ; 
But  to  me  't  will  never  be  bright  again  — 

We  shall  meet  no  more  !  we  shall  meet  no  more! 

We  shall  meet  no  more  in  the  lighted  halls 

Amid  happy  faces  and  gay  young  hearts  ; 
I  may  listen  in  vain  as  each  footstep  falls, 

I  may  watch  in  vain  as  each  form  departs ! 
There  are  laughing  voices,  but  thy  young  tone 

Its  cheerful  greeting  hath  ceased  to  pour ; 
Thy  form  from  the  dancing  train  is  gone  — 

We  shall  meet  no  more !  we  shall  meet  no  more ! 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

I  SAW  a  widow  by  her  cherished  son, 
Ere  all  of  life,  and  light,  and  hope  was  gone  — 
When  the  last  dying  glance  was  faintly  raised, 
Ere  death  with  withering  power  the  brightness  glazed 
Of  those  deep  heavenly  eyes:  a  glance  which  seem'd 
To  ask  her,  if  the  world  where  he  had  dream'd 
Such  dreams  of  happiness  with  her,  must  be 
Forsaken  in  the  spring-tide  of  his  glee ; 
13 


146  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

If  he  indeed  must  die.     I  saw  her  take 
His  hand  and  gaze,  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
On  his  pale  brow  and  languid  lips  of  grace, 
And  wipe  the  death-dew  gently  from  his  face. 
I  saw  her  after,  when  the  unconscious  clay 
Deaf  to  her  wild  appeals,  all  mutely  lay, 
With  brow  upturn'd,  and  parted  lips,  whose  hue 
Was  scarce  more  pale  than  hers,  who  met  my  view. 
She  stood,  and  wept  not  in  her  deep  despair, 
But  press'd  her  lips  upon  his  shining  hair, 
With  a  long  bitter  kiss,  and  then  with  grief, — 
Like  hers  of  old,  who  pray'd  and  found  relief — 
She  groan'd  to  God,  and  watch'd  to  see  him  stir ; 
But,  ah !  no  prophet  came,  to  raise  him  up  for  her! 


THE  POET.  i 

I  SAW  the  dark  and  city-clouded  spot, 

Where,  by  his  busy  patrons  all  forgot, 

The  young,  sad  poet,  dreams  of  better  days, 

Andgives  his  genius  forth  in  darken'd  rays. 

Chill  o'er  his  soul,  gaunt  poverty  hath  thrown 

Her  veil  of  shadows,  as  he  sighs  alone  ; 

And,  withering  up  the  springs  and  streams  of  youth, 

Left  him  to  feel  misfortune's  bitter  truth, 

And  own  with  deep  impassion'd  bitterness, 

Who  would  describe,  must  faintly  feel,  distress. 

Slowly  he  wanders,  with  a  languid  pace, 

To  the  small  window  of  his  hiding-place; 

Pressing  with  straining  force,  all  vainly  now, 

His  hot,  weak  fingers  on  his  throbbing  brow ; 

And  seeking  for  bright  thoughts,  which  care  and  pain 

Hare  driven  from  his  dim  and  wilder'd  brain. 

He  breathes  a  moment  that  unclouded  air, 


MRS.   NORTON.  147 

And  gazes  on  the  face  of  nature  there  — 
Longing  for  fresh  wild  flowers  and  verdant  fields, 
And  all  the  joys  that  open  sunshine  yields: 
Then,  turning,  he  doth  rest  his  heavy  eye 
Where  his  torn  papers  in  confusion  lie, 
And  raves  awhile,  and  seats  himself  again, 
To  toil  and  strive  for  thoughts  and  words,  in  vain: 
Till  he  can  bid  h:s  drooping  fancy  feel, 
And  barter  genius  for  a  scanty  meal ! 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

To  worship  silently  at  some  heart's  shrine, 

And  feel,  but  paint  not,  all  its  fire  in  thine : 

To  pray  for  that  heart's  hopes  when  thine  are  gone, 

Nor  let  its  after  coldness  chill  thine  own : 

To  hold  that  one,  with  every  fault,  more  dear 

Than  all  who  whisper  fondness  in  thine  ear: 

To  joy  thee  in  his  joy,  and  silently 

Meet  the  upbraiding  of  his  angry  eye  : 

To  bear  unshrinking  all  the  blood  of  fate, 

Save  that  which  leaves  thy  sorrow  desolate ; 

Nor  deem  that  woe,  which  thou  canst  feel  is  still 

Borne  with  him,  and  for  him ;  through  every  ill 

To  smile  on  him,  —  nor  weep,  save  when  apart, 

God,  and  God  only,  looks  into  thy  heart : 

To  keep  unchanged  thy  calm,  pure,  quiet  love, 

If  he,  inconstant,  doth  a  new  one  prove : 

To  love  all  round  him  as  a  part  of  him, 

Ev'n  her  he  worships :  —  though  thine  eye  be  dim 

With  weeping  for  thyself:  to  pray  that  not 

One  cloud  may  darken  o'er  their  earthly  lot ; 

With  the  affection  of  true  hearts,  to  see 

His  happiness,  which  doth  not  hang  on  thee ;— * 

Oh  !  this  is  woman's  love  —  its  joy  —  its  pain ; 

And  this  — it  hath  been  felt—  and  felt  in  vain, 


148  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  FALLEN  LEAVES. 

WE  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 

Young  children,  at  our  play  — 
And  laugh  to  see  the  yellow  things 

Go  rustling  on  their  way ; 
Right  merrily  we  hunt  them  down, 

The  autumn  winds  and  we, 
Nor  pause  to  gaze  where  snow-drifts  lie, 

Or  sunbeams  gild  the  tree. 
With  dancing  feet  we  leap  along 

Where  wither'd  boughs  are  strown, 
Nor  past  nor  future  checks  our  song  — 

The  present  is  our  own. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 

In  youth's  enchanted  spring  — 
When  Hope  (who  wearies  at  the  last) 

First  spreads  her  eagle  wing; 
We  tread  with  steps  of  conscious  strength 

Beneath  the  leafless  trees, 
And  the  color  kindles  in  our  cheek, 

As  blows  the  winter  breeze  ; 
While  gazing  t'wards  the  cold  grey  sky, 

Clouded  with  snow  and  rain, 
We  wish  the  old  year  all  pass'd  by, 

And  the  young  spring  come  again. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 
In  manhood's  haughty  prime — 

When  first  our  pausing  hearts  begin 
To  love  "  the  olden  time  ;  " 

And,  as  we  gaze  we  sigh  to  think 
How  many  a  year  hath  passed, 


MRS.  NORTON.  149 

Since,  'neath  these  cold  and  faded  trees, 

Our  footsteps  wandered  last ; 
And  old  companions  —  now  perchance 

Estranged,  forgot,  or  dead  — 
Come  round  us  as  those  autumn  leaves 

Are  crush'd  beneath  our  tread  ! 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 

In  our  own  autumn  day  — 
And,  tottering  on  with  feeble  steps', 

Pursue  our  cheerless  way  ; 
We  look  not  back — too  long  ago 

Hath  all  we  loved  been  lost ! 
Nor  forward  —  for  we  may  not  live 

To  see  our  new  hope  cross'd ; 
But  on  we  go  —  the  sun's  faint  beam 

A  feebler  warmth  imparts  — 
Childhood  without  its  joy  returns  — 

The  present  fills  our  hearts ! 


FRIENDSHIP. 

WE  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees 

In  infancy  we  played. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together  — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together ; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests  — 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 

Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts, 
13* 


150  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  gay  together  — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now? 

We  have  been  sad  together ; 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slumbered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  were  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  sad  together  — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE ! 

THY  will  be  done !  how  hard  a  thing  to  say 
When  sickness  ushers  in  death's  dreary  knell, — 
When  eyes,  that  lately  sparkled  bright  and  gay, 
Wander  around  with  dimly  conscious  ray, 
To  some  familiar  face,  to  bid  farewell ! 

Thy  will  be  done !  —  the  falt'ring  lips  deny 

A  passage  to  the  tones  as  yet  unheard ; 

The  sob  sonvulsed,  the  raised  and  swimming  eye 

Seem  as  appealing  to  their  God  on  high 

For  power  to  breathe  the  yet  imperfect  word. 

Orphan  !  who  watchest  by  the  silent  tomb 
Where  those  who  gave  thee  life  all  coldly  sleep  j 
Or  thou,  who  sittest  in  thy  desolate  home, 
Calling  to  those  beloved  who  cannot  come, 
And,  thinking  o'er  thy  loneliness,  dost  weep! 


MRS.   NORTON.  151 

Widow !  who  musest  over  by-gone  years 

Of  life,  and  love,  and  happiness  with  him 

Who  shared  thy  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 

Who  now  art  left  to  shed  unnoticed  tears, 

Till  thy  fair  cheek  is  wan,  and  eyes  grow  dim ! 

Husband !  who  dreamest  of  thy  gentle  wife, 
And  still  in  fancy  see'st  her  rosy  smile 
Brightening  a  world  of  bitterness  and  strife; 
Who  from  the  lonely  future  of  thy  life 
Turnest,  in  dreariness,  to  weep  the  while  ! 

Mother !  whose  prayers  could  not  avail  to  save 
Him  whom  thou  lovedst  most,  thy  blue-eyed  boy  ! 
Who  with  a  bitter  agony  dost  rave 
To  the  wild  winds  that  fan  his  early  grave, 
And  dashedst  from  thy  lips  the  cup  of  joy ! 

And  thou,  not  widowed,  yet  bereaved  one, 
Who,  buried  in  thy  tearless,  mute  despair, 
Roamest  a  desert  world  alone  —  alone, 
To  seek  him  out  who  from  thine  eyes  is  gone, 
Scarce  able  to  believe  he  is  not  there  ! 

Mourners !  who  linger  in  a  world  of  woe, 
Each,  bowing  'neath  his  separate  load  of  grief, 
Turn  from  the  silent  tomb,  and,  kneeling  low 
Before  that  throne  at  which  the  angels  bow, 
Invoke  a  God  of  mercy  for  relief! 

Pray  that  ye  too  may  journey,  when  ye  die, 
To  that  far  world  where  blessed  souls  are  gone, 
And,  through  the  gathering  sob  of  agony, 
Raise,  with  a  voice  resigned,  the  humble  cry, 
"Father  — Creator  —  Lord  — thy  will  be  done!" 


152  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FADED  BEAUTY. 

AH  !  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  girl , 

How  my  hair  naturally  used  to  curl, 

And  how  my  aunt  four  yards  of  net  would  pucker, 

And  call  the  odious  thing  "Diana's  tucker." 

I  hated  it,  because  although,  you  see, 

It  did  for  her,  it  did'nt  do  for  me. 

(Popkins  said  I  should  wear  a  low  corsage, 

But  this  I  know  was  merely  badinage.) 

I  recollect  the  gaieties  of  old — 

Ices  when  hot,  and  punch  when  we  were  cold ! 

Race-balls,  and  county-balls,  and  balls  where  you, 

For  seven  shillings,  got  dance  and  supper  too. 

Oh !  I  remember  all  the  routs  and  plays— 

"  But  words  are  idle,"  as  Lord  Byron  says ; 

And  so  am  I,  and  therefore  can  spare  time, 

To  put  my  recollections  into  rhyme. 

I  recollect  the  man  who  did  declare 

When  I  was  at  the  fair,  myself  was  fair: 

(I  had  it  in  my  album  for  three  years, 

And  often  looked,  and  shed  delicious  tears.) 

I  didn't  fall  in  love,  however,  then, 

Because  I  never  saw  that  man  again. 

And  I  remember  Popkins— ah !  too  well ! 
And  all  who  once  in  love  with  ChloC  fell. 
They  called  me  ChloC,  for  they  said  my  grace 
Was  nymph-like,  as  was  also  half  my  face. 
My  mouth  was  wide,  but  then  I  had  a  smile 
Which  might  a  demon  of  its  tears  beguile, — 
As  Captain  Popkins  said,  or  rather  swore, 
He  liked  me,  (ah !  my  Popkins !)  all  the  more. 
He  couldn't  bear  a  little  mouth;  for  when 


MRS.    NORTON.  153 

It  laughed,  'twas  like  a  long  slit  in  a  pen ; 
Or  button-hole  stretched  on  too  big  a  button ; 
Or  little  cut  for  gravy  in  boiled  mutton. 
(Popkins  was  clever) — but  I  must  proceed 
More  regularly,  that  my  friends  may  read. 
I  didn't  marry,  for  I  couldn't  get 
A  man  I  liked ;  I  havn't  got  one  yet ; 
But  I  had  handsome  lovers  by  the  score : 
Alas !  alas !  I  always  sighed  for  more  ! 


TRUE  LOVE. 

To  look  upon  the  fairy  one,  who  stands 

Before  you,  with  her  young  hair's  shining  bands, 

And  rosy  lips  half  parted  ;  —  and  to  muse, 

Not  on  the  features  which  you  now  peruse.  — 

Not  on  the  blushing  bride,  —  but  look  beyond 

Unto  the  aged  wife,  nor  feel  less  fond  : 

To  feel,  that  while  thy  arm  can  strike  them  dead, 

No  breathing  soul  shall  harm  that  gentle  head : 

To  know,  that  none  with  fierce  and  sudden  strife 

Shall  tear  thee  from  her,  save  with  loss  of  life : 

To  keep  thee  but  to  one,  and  let  that  one 

Be  to  thy  home,  what  warmth  is  to  the  sun ; 

To  gaze  and  find  no  change,  when  time  hath  made 

Youth's  dazzling  beauty  darken  into  shade, 

But  fondly  —  firmly  —  cling  to  her,  nor  fear 

The  fading  touch  of  life's  declining  year:  — 

This  is  true  love,  when  it  hath  found  a  rest 

In  the  deep  home  of  manhood's  faithless  breast. 


154  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

I  HAVE  tasted  each  varied  pleasure, 

And  drank  of  the  cup  of  delight ; 
I  have  danced  to  the  gayest  measure 

In  the  halls  of  dazzling  light. 
I  have  dwelt  in  a  blaze  of  splendor, 

And  stood  in  the  courts  of  kings ; 
I  have  snatched  at  each  toy  that  could  render 

More  rapid  the  flight  of  Time's  wings. 
But  vainly  I've  sought  for  joy  or  peace, 

In  the  life  of  light  and  shade; 
And  I  turn  with  a  sigh  to  my  own  dear  home — 

That  home  where  my  childhood  played. 

When  jewels  are  sparkling  round  me, 

And  dazzling  with  their  rays 
I  weep  for  ties  that  bound  me 

In  life's  first  early  days. 
I  sigh  for  one  of  the  sunny  hours 

Ere  day  was  turned  to  night; 
For  one  of  my  nosegays  of  fresh  wild  flowers, 

Instead  of  those  jewels  bright. 
I  weep  when  I  gaze  on  the  scentless  buds 

Which  never  can  bloom  or  fade;  ' 
And  I  turn  with  a  sigh  to  those  gay  green  fields 

The  home  where  my  childhood  played. 


MRS.    NORTON.  155 


MUSIC'S  POWER. 

HAVE  you  not  heard,  in  music's  sound, 

Some  chords  which  o'er  your  heart 
First  fling  a  moment's  magic  round, 

Then  silently  depart  ? 
But  when  the  echo  on  the  air 

Roused  by  that  simple  lay, 
It  leaves  a  world  of  feeling  there 

We  cannot  chase  away. 

Yes,  yes,  —  a  sound  hath  power  to  bid  them  come — 
Youth's  half-forgotten  hopes,  childhood's  remembered  home. 

When  sitting  in  your  silent  home 

You  gaze  around  and  weep. 
Or  call  to  those  who  cannot  come, 

Nor  wake  from  dreamless  sleep ; 
Those  chords,  so  oft  as  you  bemoan 

"  The  distant  and  the  dead," 
Bring  dimly  back  the  fancied  tone 

Of  some  sweet  voice  that's  fled  ! 
Yes,  yes,  — a  sound  hath  power  to  bid  (hem  come  — 
Youth's  half-forgotten  hopes,  childhood's  remembered  home. 

And  when,  amid  the  festal  throng, 

You  are,  or  would  be  gay  — 
And  seek  to  'wile,  with  dance  and  song, 

Your  sadder  thoughts  away,  — 
They  strike  those  chords,  and  smiles  depart, 

As,  rushing  o'er  your  soul, 
The  untold  feelings  of  the  heart 

Awake  and  spurn  control  ! 

Yes,  yes,  —  a  sound  hath  power  to  bid  them  come  — 
Youth's  half-forgotten  hopes,  childhood's  remembered  home. 


MARY   HOWITT. 


GENTLE,  pure-hearted  poetess — we  cannot  call  thee  Mis- 
tress Howitt ! — albeit  thou  art  the  wedded  wife  of  a  poet, 
worthy  to  bestow  his  name  and  the  matronly  title  upon  thee. 
But  thy  address  should  agree  with  the  sweet,  unpretending 
character  of  thy  verse,  which,  like  the  Violet,  is  sought  the 
more  for  its  modest  simplicity  ;  and  so  we  shall  continue  to 
speak  of  thee  by  that  name,  so  dear  to  all  lovers  of  true. 
heart-touching  poetry — Mary  Howitt. 

We  think  Mary  Howitt  must  always  have  been  poetical. 
There  is  an  ease  in  all  her  productions,  and  a  playfulness 
of  fancy  in  many  of  them  which  could  never  have  been 
gained  by  study.  She  has  a  warm  love  of  nature,  and  of 
children — feelings  that  imbue  the  soul  of  a  woman  with 
the  spirit  of  poesy — and  then  she  is  pious,  tenderly,  sin- 
cerely pious;  and  the  subjects  she  chooses  seem  to  harmon- 
ize with  the  tenor  of  her  thoughts,  like  household  words  in 
a  loving  family.  She  has,  also,  a  taste  for  the  mystical, 
just  sufficient  to  throw  an  air  of  romance  over  the  every-day 
scenes  of  life,  and  give  to  the  old  traditions  of  fairy  lore, 
that  reality  which  makes  its  teachings 

"  A  lesson  not  to  be  unlearned." 

The  poems  of  Mary  Howitt  have  chiefly  appeared  in  the 
periodicals,  or  in  works  in  which  she  has  been  associated 


MARY   HOWITT.  157 

with  her  husband,  William  Howitt.  Her  last  production, 
"  The  Seven  Temptations,"  has  not  been  republished  in 
America ;  it  well  deserves  to  be,  as  it  is  imbued  with  those 
pious  teachings  which,  invested  in  the  garb  of  moving  po- 
etry, have  a  deep  and  abiding  effect  on  the  young. 

There  is  in  many  parts  of  this  work,  as  well  as  in  some 
of  her  shorter  poems,  that  fervor  and  power  of  expression 
which  evince  a  genius  of  the  first  order.  We  think  she 
has  many  of  the  best  characteristics  of  Wordsworth's  style 
— though  no  imitation,  or  the  least  touch  of  mannerism  is 
chargeable  on  our  sweet  poetess.  But,  like  the  lyrist  of  na- 
ture, she  can  create  a  scene  of  beauty  where  common  eyes 
would  see  only  a  rough  landscape — and  draw  forth  tones  of 
love  and  sympathy  from  chords  which,  in  a  less  delicate 
and  skilful  hand,  would  breathe  only  harsh  and  repelling 
dissonance. 

Mary  Howitt  has  many  advantages  which  will  facilitate 
her  literary  progress.  She  is  united  to  a  man  of  fine  genius 
and  pure  taste,  and  is"  encouraged  by  his  Approbation  and 
example  to  cultivate  her  own  powers.  This  is  a  felicity 
which  few  literary  ladies  have  enjoyed,  and  the  gentle  and 
womanly  manner  in  which  she  employs  her  talents  shows 
that  she  appreciates  her  own  happy  lot.  The  religion  of 
the  Quakers,  in  which  faith  this  gifted  and  amiable  pair 
were  educated,  is  very  favorable  to  female  genius.  The 
influences  of  the  spirit  are  equally  encouraged  and  regard- 
ed in  both  sexes ;  hence  a  soul-companionship  is  establish- 
ed between  husband  and  wife,  which,  if  they  are  endowed 
with  fine  talents  and  warm  sensibilities,  like  the  Hewitts, 
must  make  their  home  a  scene  of  improvement  and  delight. 

"For  them  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven 

With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers," 

14 


158  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


SPRING. 

THE  spring — she  is  a  blessed  thing! 

She  is  the  mother  of  the  flowers ; 
She  is  the  mate  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  partner  of  their  revelries, 

Our  star  of  hope  through  wintry  hours. 

The  merry  children,  when  they  see 

Her  coming,  by  the  budding  thorn, 
They  leap  upon  the  cottage  floor, 
They  shout  beside  the  cottage  door, 
And  run  to  meet  her,  night  and  morn. 

They  are  soonest  with  her  in  the  woods, 

Peeping,  the  withered  leaves  among, 
To  find  the  earliest,  fragrant  thing 
That  dares  from  the  cold  earth  to  spring, 
Or  catch  the  earliest  wild-bird's  song. 

The  little  brooks  run  on  in  light, 

As  if  they  had  a  chase  of  mirth; 
The  skies  are  blue,  the  air  is  warm, 
Our  very  hearts  have  caught  the  charm 
That  sheds  a  beauty  over  earth. 

The  aged  man  is  in  the  field ; 

The  maiden  'mong  her  garden  flowers  j 
The  sons  of  sorrow  and  distress 
Are  wandering  in  forgetfulness 

Of  wants  that  fret  and  care  that  lowers. 


MARY   HOWITT.  159 

She  comes  with  more  than  present  good — 

With  joys  to  store  for  future  years, 
From  which,  in  striving  crowds  apart, 
The  bowed  in  spirit,  bruised  in  heart, 

May  glean  up  hope  with  grateful  tears. 

Up  —  let  us  to  the  fields  away, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  and  balmy  air : 

The  bird  is  building  in  the  tree, 

The  flower  has  opened  to  the  bee, 
And  health,  and  love,  and  peace  are  there  ! 


TRADITIONARY  BALLAD. 

THE   FAIRIES   OF   THE   CALDON-LOW. — A  MIDSUMMER  LEGEND. 

"  AND  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  1 " 

"  I've  been  at  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  Midsummer  night  to  see ! " 

"And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low?" 
<c  I  saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"  And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Hill  ?  » 
"  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 

And  the  green  corn  ears  to  fill." 

n  Oh  tell  me  all,  my  Mary,— 
All,  all  that  ever  you  know ; 


160  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies, 
Last  night,  on  Caldon-Low." 

"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 
And  listen,  mother  of  mine : — 

A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 
And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

"And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings, 
And  their  dancing  feet  so  small; 

But,  oh,  the  sound  of  their  talking 
Was  merrier  far  than  all!" 

"  And* what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  you  did  hear  them  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother — 
But  let  me  have  my  way ! 

"And  some,  they  played  with  the  water, 

And  roll'd  it  down  the  hill; 
'And  this,'  they  said,  *  shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

" '  For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May  ; 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 

" '  Oh,  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise ! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes ! ' 

"  And  some,  they  seized  the  little  winds, 
That  sounded  over  the  hill, 


MARY  HOWITT.  161 

And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 
And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill  — 

" '  And  there,'  said  they,  *  the  merry  winds  go, 

Away  from  every  horn ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank, 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn ! 

" { Oh,  the  poor,  blind  old  widow  — 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 
She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  stiff  and  strong ! ' 

"  And  some,  they  brought  the  brown  lint-seed, 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low  — 
'And  this,'  said  they,  'by  the  sun  rise, 

In  the  wearer's  croft  shall  grow ! 

"  '  Oh,  the  poor,  lame  weaver, 

How  will  he  laugh  outright, 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax  field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night ! ' 

"  And  then  upspoke  a  brownie, 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin  — 
'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 

'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

" '  I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I  want  to  spin  another  — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother ! ' 

"  And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free; 
14* 


162  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

"  And  all,  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 

And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

"But  as  I  came  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard  a  jar  below; 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go  ! 

"And  I  peep'd  into  the  widow's  field, 
And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 

The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 
All  standing  stiff  and  green. 

"  And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 
To  see  if  the  flajc  were  high  ; 

But  I  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 
With  the  good  news  in  his  eye ! 

"  Now,  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see ; 
So,  prythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I  am  tired  as  I  can  be ! " 


MARY   HO  WITT.  163 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  SEA  CAPTAIN. 

'TWAS  in  a  palace  garderi 

I  met  my  lady  fair; 
A  stately  palace  garden, 
A-taking  of  the  air — 

A-taking  of  the  pleasant  air. 

One  merry  morn  in  June; 
And  she  was  singing  to  herself 

A  soft,  enchanting  tune. 

Among  the  shady  cypresses 

She  made  a  little  stand ; 
Her  dainty  foot  so  lightly  set, 

And  a  fan  within  her  hand. 

I  never  saw  a  crowned  queen 

With  such  a  noble  air; 
So  angel  like,  so  womanly, 

As  is  my  lady  fair  ! 

I  could  not  keep  my  silence, 
So  through  the  trees  I  broke, 

And  thus  unto  my  lady  fair, 
With  right  good  will  I  spoke : 

"I  am  a  bold  Sea  Captain: 
The  dueen  she  1'oveth  me: 

My  palace  is  a  noble  ship, 
My  garden  is  the  sea. 


164  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

"  Two  hundred  merry  mariners 
They  do  my  bidding  well; 

And  the  gold  that  in  my  coffer  lies 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

"  There's  many  a  heart  that  heats  for  me 
Beyond  the  heaving  main — 

The  black-eyed  girls  of  Mexico, 
The  ladies  of  New  Spain ! 

"  But,  beautiful  although  they  be, 
They  win  no  love  of  mine: 

I'd  give  a  thousand  flashing  eyes 
For  but  one  glance  of  thine  ! " 

My  lady  love,  divinely  bright, 

She  blushed  all  rosy  red; 
And  turned  on  me  her  heavenly  eyes, 

But  not  a  word  she  said. 

"I've  loved  thee  well,  my  lady  bright," 

I  said,  "  lor  many  a  year ; 
Thou  know'st  we  set  the  roses, 

That  grow  so  lovely  here.  * 

"  What  though  we  were  but  children  then 
We  loved  —  so  do  we  now  ! " 

My  lady  cast  her  eyes  adown, 
And  blushed  o'er  cheek  and  brow. 

I  took  her  lily  hand  in  mine, 

And  to  my  lips  I  pressed; 
But  a  tear  from  out  her  drooping  eyes 

Fell  pearl-like  on  her  breast. 


MARY  HOWITT.  165 

"  Now,  now,  by  every  saint  in  heaven," 

I  cried,  "  my  lady  dear, 
May  I  be  banned  for  every  word 

That  causeth  thee  a  tear ! " 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  like  an  angel, 

And  sweetly  smiled  the  while : 
How  poor  was  all  my  coffered  gold 

To  that  dear  word  and  smile  ! 

I  locked  her  lily  hand  in  mine, 

And  down  the  walk  went  we; 
And  that  old  palace  garden 

Was  paradise  to  me  ! 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY. 

"  WILL  you  walk  into  my  parlor?  "  said  a  spider  to  a  fly ; 
"'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy. 
The  way  into  my  parlor  is  up  a  winding  scair, 
And  I  have  many  pretty  things  to  show  when  you  are  there.' 
"  Oh  no,  no ! "  said  the  little  fly,  "  to  ask  me  is  in  vain, 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair  can  ne'er  come  down 
again." 

"I'm  sure  you  must  be  weary,  with  soaring  up  so  high;. 
Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed  ?  "  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 
"  There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around,  the  sheets  are 

fine  and  thin ; 

And  if  you  like  to  rest  awhile,  I'll  snugly  tuck  you  in." 
"  Oh  no,  no !  "  said  the  little  fly,  "  for  I've  often  heard  it  said, 
They  never,  never  wake  again,  who  sleep  upon  your  bed ! " 


166  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Said  the  cunning  spider  to  the  fly,  "  Dear  friend,  what  shall 

I  do, 

To  prove  the  warm  affection  I've  always  felt  for  you? 
I  have,  within  my  pantry,  good  store  of  all  that's  nice; 
I'm  sure  you're  very  welcome  — will  you  please  to  take  a 

slice?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no ! "  said  the  little  fly,  "  kind  sir,  that  cannot  be ; 
I've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  see." 

"  Sweet  creature ! "  said  the  spider,  "  you're  witty  and  you're 

wise. 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings,  how  brilliant  are 

your  eyes! 

I  have  a  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlor  shelf, 
If  you'll  step  in  one  moment,  dear,  you  shall  behold  your 

self." 
"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "  for  what  you're  pleased 

to  say, 
And  bidding  you  good  morning,  now,  I'll  call  another  day." 

The  spider  turned  him  round  about,  and  went  into  his  den, 

For  well  he  knew  the  silly  fly  would  soon  be  back  again : 

80  he  wove  a  subtle  web,  in  a  little  corner,  sly, 

And  set  his  table  ready  to  dine  upon  the  fly. 

Then  he  went  out  to  his  door  again,  and  merrily  did  sing, 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  fly,  with  the  pearl  and  silver 

wing; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple  —  there's  a  crest  upon  your 

head; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  but  mine  are  dull  as 

lead." 

Alas,  alas  !  how  very  soon  this  silly  little  fly, 
Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words,  came  slowly  flitting  by ; 
With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  near  and  nearer 
drew, 


MARY   HOWITT.  167 

Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and  purple 

hue; — 
Thinking  only  of  her  crested  head  —  poor  foolish  thing!  — 

At  last 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  spider,  and  fiercely  held  her  fast. 

He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair,  into  his  dismal  den, 
Within  his  little  parlor  —  but  she  ne'er  came  out  again ! 
And  now,  dear  little  children,  who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you  ne'er  give  heed: 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor,  close  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
And  take- a  lesson  from  this  tale  of  the  Spider  and  the  Fly. 


THE  SNOW-DROP. 

i 

THE  snow-drop!  'tis  an  English  flower, 
And  grows  beneath  our  garden  trees ! 
For  every  heart  it  has  a  dower 
Of  old  and  dear  remembrances. 
All  look  upon  it,  and  straightway 
Recall  their  youth  like  yesterday ; 
Their  sunny  years,  when  forth  they  went 
Wandering  in  weariless  content ; 
Their  little  plot  of  garden  ground, 
The  pleasant  orchard's  quiet  bound; 
Their  fathers'  home,  so  free  from  care, 
And  the  familiar  faces  there. 

The  household  voices  kind  and  sweet, 
That  knew  no  feigning  —  hushed  and  gone ! 
The  mother  that  was  sure  to  greet 
Their  coming  with  a  welcome  tone  ; 


168  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

The  brothers,  that  were  children  then, 
Now  anxious,  thoughtful,  toiling  men; 
And  the  kind  sisters,  whose  glad  mirth 

Was  like  a  sunshine  on  the  earth  j 

These  come  back  to  the  heart  supine, 
Flower  of  our  youth !  at  look  of  thine ; 
And  thou,  among  the  dimmed  and  gone, 
Art  an  unaltered  ihing  alone  ! 

Unchanged,  unchanged  —  the  very  flower 
That  grew  in  Eden  droopingly, 
Which  now  beside  the  peasant's  door 
Awakes  his  merry  children's  glee, 
Even  as  it  filled  his  heart  with  joy 
Beside  his  mother's  door  —  a  boy ; 
The  same,  and  to  his  heart  it  brings 
The  freshness  of  those  vanished  springs. 
Bloom,  then,  fair  flower !  in  sun  and  shade, 
For  deep  thought  in  thy  cup  is  laid, 
And  careless  children,  in  their  glee, 
A  sacred  memory  make  of  thee. 


THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN. 

THOUGHTS  of  Heaven !  they  come  when  low 
The  summer-eve's  breeze  doth  faintly  blow: 
When  the  mighty  sea  shines  clear,  unstirred 
By  the  wavering  tide,  or  the  dipping  bird: 
They  come  in  the  rush  of  the  surging  storm, 
When  the  blackening  waves  rear  their  giant  form  — 
When  o'er  the  dark  rocks  curl  the  breakers  white, 
And  the  terrible  lightnings  rend  the  night  — 
When  the  noble  ship  hath  vainly  striven 
With  the  tempest's  might,  come  thoughts  of  Heaven. 


MARY   HOWITT.  169 

They  come  where  man  doth  not  intrude. 

In  the  untracked  forest's  solitude  ; 

In  the  stillness  of  the  grey  rocks'  height, 

Whence  the  lonely  eagle  takes  his  flight ; 

On  peaks,  where  lie  the  eternal  snows  ; 

In  the  sun-bright  isle,  mid  its  rich  repose ; 

In  the  heathy  glen,  hy  the  dark,  clear  lake, 

Where  the  fair  swan  sails  from  her  silent  brake ; 

Where  nature  reigns  in  her  deepest  rest, 

Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  come  unrepress'd. 

They  come  as  we  gaze  on  the  midnight  sky, 
When  the  star-gemmed  vault  looks  dark  and  high, 
And  the  soul,  on  the  wings  of  thought  sublime, 
Soars  from  the  dim  world  and  the  bounds  of  time, 
Till  the  mental  eye  becomes  unsealed, 
And  the  mystery  of  being  in  light  revealed : 
They  rise  in  the  gothic  chapel  dim, 
When  slowly  bursts  forth  the  holy  hymn, 
And  the  organ's  rich  tones  swell  full  and  high, 
Till  the  roof  peals  back  the  melody. 

Thoughts  of  heaven  !  from  his  joy  beguiled, 
They  come  to  the  bright-eyed,  sinless  child 
To  the  man  of  age,  in  his  dim  decay, 
Bringing  hope  his  youth  has  not  borne  away ; 
To  the  woe-smit  soul  in  its  dark  distress, 
As  flowers  spring  up  in  the  wilderness ; 
And  in  silent  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  mourner  goes  with  soundless  tread ; 
For  as  the  day-beams  freely  fall, 
Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  are  sent  to  all. 
15 


170  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


FROM  "THE  SEVEN  TEMPTATIONS." 

THE   POOR  SCHOLAR. 

Schol.    MOST  precious  words !    Now  go  your  way, 

The  summer  fields  are  green  and  bright. 
Your  tasks  are  done ;  —  Why  do  you  stay  ? 

Christ  give  his  peace  to  you !  Good  night ! 

Boy.    You  look  so  pale,  sir!  You  are  worse. 
Let  me  remain  and  be  your  nurse ! 
Sir,  when  my  mother  has  been  ill, 
1're  kept  her  chamber  neat  and  still, 
And  waited  on  her  all  the  day ! 

Schol.    Thank  you ;  but  yet  you  must  not  stay. 
Still,  still,  my  boy,  before  we  part 

Receive  ray  blessing  —  't  is  my  last ! 
I  feel  death's  hand  is  on  my  heart, 

And  my  life's  sun  is  sinking  fast: 
Yet,  mark  me,  child,  I  have  no  fear, — 

'T  is  thus  the  Christian  meets  his  end : 
I  know  my  work  is  finished  here, 

And  God  —  thy  God  too  —  is  my  friend  ! 
Thy  joyful  course  has  just  begun  ; 

Life  is  in  thee  a  fountain  strong; 
Yet,  look  upon  a  dying  man, 

Receive  his  words  and  keep  them  long! 
Fear  God,  all  wise,  omnipotent, 

In  him  we  live  and  have  our  being; 
He  hath  all  love,  all  blessing  sent  — 

Creator  —  Father  —  All-decreeing ! 
Fear  him,  and  love,  and  praise,  and  trust ; 

Yet  have  of  man  no  slavish  fear; 
Remember  kings,  like  thee,  are  dust, 

And  at  one  judgment  must  appear. 


MARY   HOWITT.  171 

But  virtue,  and  its  holy  fruits, 

The  poet's  soul— the  sage's  sense, 
These  are  exalted  attributes, 

And  these  deserve  thy  reverence. 
But,  boy,  remember  this,  e'en  then, 
Revere  the  gifts,  but  not  the  men ! 
Obey  thy  parents  —  they  are  given 

To  guide  our  inexperienced  youth  ; 
Types  are  they  of  the  One  in  heaven, 

Chastising  but  in  love  and  truth. 
Keep  thyself  pure. —  Sin  doth  deface 

The  beauty  of  our  spiritual  life. 
Do  good  to  all  men  —  live  in  peace 

And  charity,  abhorring  strife. 
The  mental  power  which  God  has  given, 

As  I  have  taught  thee,  cultivate ; 
Thou  canst  not  be  too  wise  for  heaven, 

If  thou  dost  humbly  consecrate 
Thy  soul  to  God.    And  ever  take 

In  his  good  book  delight ;  there  lies 
The  highest  knowledge,  which  will  make 

Thy  soul  unto  salvation  wise. 
My  little  boy,  thou  canst  not  know 
How  strives  my  spirit  fervently, 
How  my  heart's  fountains  overflow 

With  yearning  tenderness  for  thee ! 
God  keep,  and  strengthen  thee  from  sin  — 
God  crown  thy  life  with  peace  and  joy, 
And  give  at  last  to  enter  in 
The  city  of  his  rest,  my  boy. 


PRAYER   OP  THE   SCHOLAR. 

Schol.    Almighty  God  !  look  down 
Upon  thy  feeble  servant !  strengthen  him ! 
Give  him  the  victor's  crown  — 


172  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  let  not  faith  be  dim ! 

Oh !  how  unworthy  of  thy  grace, 

How  poor,  how  needy,  stained  with  sin ! 

How  can  I  enter  in 
Thy  kingdom,  and  behold  thy  face  ! 
Except  thou  hadst  redeemed  me,  I  had  gone 

Without  sustaining  knowledge,  to  the  grave! 
For  this  I  bless  thee,  oh  thou  gracious  One ! 

And  thou  wilt  surely  save. — 
I  bless  thee  for  the  life  which  thou  hast  crowned 

With  never-ending  good; 
For  pleasures  that  were  found, 

Like  way-side  flowers,  in  quiet  solitude. — 
I  bless  thee  for  the  love  that  watched  o'er  me 
Through  the  weak  years  of  infancy, 
That  has  been,  like  thine  everlasting  truth, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  angel  of  my  youth. 
Oh,  thou !  that  did'st  the  mother's  heart  bestow, 
Sustain  it  in  its  woe  — 
For  mourning  give  it  joy,  and  praise  for  heaviness. 


THE     PROniGAL. 

T^homas.    Ah,  I  remember  well 
There  is  a  little  hollow  hereabout, 
Where  wild-brier  roses,  and  lithe  honeysuckle 
Made  a  thick  bower :  7T  was  here  I  used  to  come 
To  read  sweet  books  of  witching  poetry ! 
Could  it  be  I?    No,  no,  I  am  so  changed 
I  will  not  think  this  man  was  once  that  boy : 
The  thought  would  drive  me  mad.    I  will  but  think 
I  once  knew  one  who  called  this  vale  his  own  j 
I  will  but  think  I  knew  a  merry  boy, 
And  a  kind  gentle  father,  years  agone, 
Who  had  their  dwelling  here ;  and  that  the  boy 


MARY   HOWITT.  173 

Did  love  this  lonely  nook,  and  used  to  find 

Here  the  first  nests  of  summer;  here  did  read 

All  witching  books  of  glorious  poetry  ; 

And  thus,  that  as  the  boy  became  a  youth, 

And  gentle  feeling  strengthen'd  into  passion, 

And  love  became  the  poetry  of  life,  — 

Hither  he  wandered  with  a  girlish  beauty, 

Gathering,  like  Proserpine,  sweet  meadow  flowers ; 

And  that  they  set  beneath  the  wild-brier  rose, 

And  that  he  thus  did  kiss  that  maiden's  cheek, 

The  first  time  as  a  lover!     Oh  my  God! 

That  was  the  heir  of  Jones.     A  brave  boy, 

A  noble-hearted  boy !     He  grew  a  man, 

And  what  became  of  him?     Ha!  pass  me  that  — 

Would  that  I  knew  not  what  became  of  him ! 


SONG   OF  EDAH.. 

Little  waves  upon  the  deep 
Murmur  soft  when  thou  dost  sleep ; 
Gentle  birds  upon  the  tree 
Sing  their  sweetest  songs  for  thee 
Cooling  gales,  with  voices  low, 
In  the  tree-tops  gently  blow  ! 
Dearest,  who  dost  sleeping  lie, 
All  things  love  thee, —  so  do  I ! 

When  thou  wak'st,  the  sea  will  pour 
Treasures  for  thee  to  the  shore ; 
And  the  earth,  in  plant  and  tree, 
Bring  forth  fruit  and  flowers  for  thee  ! 
And  the  glorious  heaven  above, 
Smile  on  thee,  like  trusting  love. 
Dearest,  who  dost  sleeping  lie, 
All  things  love  thee, —  so  do  I ! 
15* 


174  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 


SONG    OF    MARGARET. 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  cannot  fade, 

Nor  sorrow  dim  the  eye: 
Where  true  love  shall  not  droop  nor  be  dismay'd, 

And  none  shall  ever  die. 

Where  is  that  land,  oh  where  ? 

For  I  would  hasten  there  — 

Tell  me  —  I  fain  would  go, 
For  I  am  wearied  with  a  heavy  wo! 
The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone  ! 
The  true,  the  tender,  from  my  paths  are  gone ! 

Oh  guide  me  with  thy  hand, 

If  thou  dost  know  that  land, 
For  I  am  burdened  with  oppressive  care, 
And  I  am  weak  and  fearful  with  despair ! 

Where  is  it  ?—  tell  me  where  — 
Thou  that  art  kind  and  gentle  —  tell  me  where. 

Friend !  thou  must  trust  in  Him,  who  trod  before 

The  desolate  paths  of  life  ; 
Must  bear  in  meekness,  as  he  meekly  bore, 

Sorrow,  and  pain,  and  strife  ! 

Think  how  the  Son  of  God 

Those  thorny  paths  hath  trod  ; 

Think  how  he  longed  to  go, 
Yet  tarried  out  for  thee  the  appointed  wo ; 
Think  of  his  weariness  in  places  dim, 
Where  no  man  comforted,  nor  cared  for  Him  ! 

Think  of  the  blood-like  sweat 

With  which  his  brow  was  wet ; 
Yet  how  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone 
In  that  great  agony  —  *  Thy  will  be  done ! ' 

Friend  !  do  not  thou  despair, 
Christ  from  his  heaven  of  heavens  will  hear  thy  prayer  ! 


MARIA    JANE    JEWSBURY. 


WE  choose  to  retain  the  name  by  which  this  gifted  wo- 
man was  known  as  an  authoress,  although  she  had  chang- 
ed it  before  her  decease  ;  but  we  can  never  think  of  her  as 
Mrs.  Fletcher.  Miss  Jewsbury  was  born  in  Warwickshire. 
In  early  youth  she  lost  her  mother,  and  was  thenceforth 
called  to  take  her  place  at  the  head  of  a  large  family.  Her 
father,  soon  after  her  mother's  death,  removed  to  Manches- 
ter, and  here,  in  the  midst  of  a  busy  population,  oppressed 
with  ill  health,  and  the  grave  cares  of  life,  the  promptings 
of  genius  still  triumphed,  and  the  young  lady  found  time 
to  dream  dreams  of  literary  distinction,  which  the  energy 
of  her  mind,  in  a  few  years,  converted  into  realities. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  she  addressed  a  letter  to  Words- 
worth, full  of  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ardent  imagination: 
this  led  to  a  correspondence  with  the  bard  of  the  Excursion, 
which  soon  ripened  into  permanent  friendship.  She  was  also 
materially  assisted  in  the  development  of  her  talents,  and 
the  circulation  of  her  first  literary  efforts,  by  the  advice 
and  active  kindness  of  Mr.  Alaric  Watts,  at  that  time  a  res- 
ident in  Manchester :  these  obligations  she  always  grate- 
fully acknowledged. 

Her  first  work  was  entitled '"  Phantasmagoria ;  or,  Es- 
says of  Life  and  Literature,"  —  which  was  well  received 
by  the  public.  This  was  soon  followed  by  "  Letters  to  the 
Young,"  written  soon  after  a  severe  illness :  then  follow- 


176  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

ed  "  Lays  for  Leisure  Hours."  Her  last  work  was  her 
"Three  Histories,"*  which  she  allows  display  much  of  her 
own  character  and  feelings.  But  her  best  writings  are  to 
be  found  in  the  periodicals  and  annuals,  to  which  she  was 
a  large  and  most  popular  contributor. 

In  1833,  she  married  Mr.  Fletcher,  a  gentleman  who  held 
an  office  under  the  London  East  India  Company — and  soon 
after  her  marriage  left  England  with  her  husband  for  Bom- 
bay. She  anticipated,  with  eager  pleasure,  the  riches  of  na- 
ture and  antiquity,  which  the  gorgeous  East  would  open 
before  her — but  the  buoyant  and  active  spirit  was.  soon  to 
be  called  to  another  and  higher  existence.  She  died  a  short 
time  after  reaching  India,  and  sleeps  in  that  "clime  of  the 
sun,"  a  fit  resting-place  for  her  warm  and  ardent  heart. 

As  the  best  illustration  of  her  character  and  genius  which 
we  can  give,  we  subjoin  some  extracts  from  a  private  letter, 
which  she  wrote  to  a  friend  a  short  time  before  she  left 
England :  — 

"  The  passion  for  literary  distinction  consumed  me  from 
nine  years  old.  I  had  no  advantages — great  obstacles  — 
and  now,  when  from  disgust  I  cannot  write  a  line  to  please 
myself,  I  look  back  with  regret  to  the  days  when  facility  and 
audacity  went  hand  in  hand ;  I  wish  in  vain  for  the  simplici- 
ty which  neither  dreaded  criticism  nor  knew  fear.  Intense 
labor  has,  in  some  measure,  supplied  the  deficiency  of  early 
idleness  and  common-place  instniction ;  intercourse  with 
those  who  were  once  distant  and  bright  as  the  stars,  has 
become  a  thing  of  course  ;  I  have  not  been  unsuccessful  in 
my  own  career.  But  the  period  of  timidity  and  sadness  is 
now  come,  and  with  my  foot  upon  the  threshold  of  a  new 
life,  and  a  new  world  — 

'  I  would  lay  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  this  life  of  wo.' 

*  This  interesting  volume  was  republished  in  America,  and  was 
very  popular.  Her  other  works  have  not  been  reprinted  here, — 
except  the  " Letters  to  the  Young;"  but  could  her  " Miscellane- 
ous Writings  "  be  collected,  they  would,  no  doubt,  be  highly  appre- 
ciated. 


MISS   JEWSBURY.  177 

"Unfortunately,  I  was  twenty-one  before  I  became  a 
reader,  and  I  became  a  writer  almost  as  soon :  it  is  the  ruin 
of  all  young  talent  of  the  day,  that  reading  and  writing  are 
simultaneous.  We  do  not  educate  ourselves  for  literary 
enterprise.  I  would  gladly  burn  almost  every  thing  I  ever 
wrote,  if  so  be  I  might  start  now  with  a  mind  that  has  seen, 
read,  thought  and  suffered  somewhat,  at  least,  approaching 
to  a  preparation.  Alas,  alas  !  we  all  sacrifice  the  palm- 
tree  to  obtain  the  temporary  draught  of  wine !  We  slay 
the  camel  that  would  bear  us  through  the  desert,  because 
we  will  not  endure  a  momentary  thirst. 

"  I  have  done  nothing-  to  live: — The  powers  which  I 
feel,  and  of  which  I  have  given  promise,  may  mature  —  may 
stamp  themselves  in  act;  but  the  spirit  of  despondency  is 
strong  upon  the  future  exile,  and  I  fear  they  never  will. 
"  I  feel  the  long  grass  growing  o'er  my  heart. 
"  In  the  best  of  every  thing  I  have  done,  you  will  find  one 
leading  idea  —  Death.  All  thoughts,  all  images,  all  con- 
trast of  thoughts  and  images,  are  derived  from  living  much 
in  the  valley  of  that  shadow.  My  poetry,  except  some  halt 
dozen  pieces,  may  be  consigned  to  oblivion ;  but  in  all,  you 
would  find  the  sober  hue,  which,  to  my  mind's  eye,  blends 
equally  with  the  golden  glow  of  sunset,  and  the  bright  green 
of  spring ;  and  is  seen  equally  in  the  '  temple  of  delight,' 
as  in  the  tomb  of  decay  and  separation.  I  am  melancholy 
by  nature,  but  cheerful  on  principle." 

Such  was  the  mind  and  heart  of  this  noble  woman.  In 
conversation  she  was  brilliant  and  eloquent ;  in  the  domes- 
tic circle  she  was  a  treasure,  that  Solomon  would  have 
placed  above  "rubies."  Active,  judicious,  and  kind,  she 
showed  the  strength  of  her  understanding,  as  well  as  the 
correctness  of  her  principles,  by  discharging  her  household 
duties  with  the  same  promptness  and  cheerfulness  with 
which  she  pursued  her  literary  career.  By  her  premature 
death,  a  bright  ornament  is  gone  from  the  female  authors 
of  the  age.  A  fair  lily  has  folded  its  rich  blossoms  in  our 
Wreath. 


178 


THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  LOST  SPIRIT. 
u  No  man  careth  for  my  soul ."    Psalm  cxlii.  4. 

WEEP,  Sire,  with  shame  and  ruing, 
Weep  for  thy  child's  undoing! 
For  the  days  when  I  was  young, 
And  no  prayer  was  taught  my  tongue; 
Nor  the  record  from  on  high, 
Of  the  life  that  cannot  die: 
Wiles  of  the  world,  and  men  — 
Of  their  three-score  years  and  ten; 
Earthly  profit  —  human  praise, 
Thou  did'st  set  before  my  gaze, 
As  the  guiding  stars  of  life, 
As  the  meed  of  toil  and  strife ; 
I  run  the  world's  race  well, 
And  find  my  guerdon  —  Hell ! 

Weep,  Mother,  weep  —  yet  know 
'Twill  not  shorten  endless  wo. 
Nor  thy  prayer  unbind  my  chain, 
Thy  repentance  soften  pain, 
Nor  the  life-blood  of  thy  frame, 
For  one  moment  quench  this  flame ! 
Weep  not  beside  my  tomb, 
That  is  gentle,  painless  gloom ; 
Let  the  worm  and  darkness  prey 
On  my  senseless  slumbering  clay  ; 
Weep  for  the  priceless  gem 
That  may  not  hide  with  them; 
Weep  the  lost  spirit's  fate, 
Yet  know  thy  tears  too  late:  — 

Had  they  sooner  fallen  —  well, 

/had  not  wept  in  Hell! 


MISS  JEWSBURY,  179 

Physician,  canst  thou  weep  ? 
Then  let  tears  thy  pillow  steep : 
Couldst  thou  view  time's  wearing  wave 
Doomed  to  whelm  me  in  its  grave  j 
The  last  and  lessening  space, 
My  life's  brief  hour  of  grace, 
Yet  with  gay  unfaltering  tongue, 
Promise  health  and  sojourn  long? 
On  the  brink  of  that  profound 
Without  measure,  depth,  or  bound, 
View  me  busied  with  the  toys 
Of  a  world  of  shadowy  joys  ? 
Oh,  had  look,  or  sigh,  or  breath, 
Then  whispered  aught  of  death ; 
Though  nature,  in  the  strife, 
Had  loosed  her  hold  on  life, 
And  the  worm  received  its  prey, 
Perchance,  an  earlier  day  — 

This  —  this  —  and  who  can  tell 

That  I  had  dwelt  in  Hell! 

False  Prophet,  nattering  Priest, 

Full  fraught  with  mirth  and  feast! 

Thy  weeping  should  not  fail 

But  with  life's  dark-ended  tale  ! 

For  the  living —  for  the  dead  — 

There  is  guilt  upon  thy  head  ! 

Thou  did'st  make  the  "narrow  way," 

As  the  broad  one,  smooth  and  gay  ; 

So  speak  in  accents  bland 

Of  the  bright  and  better  land, 

That  the  soul  unchanged  within. 

The  sinner  in  his  sin, 

Of  God  and  Christ  unshriven, 

Lay  down  with  dreams  of  heaven!  — 
False  Priest,  thy  labors  tell, 
I  dreamed  —  and  woke  in  Hell ! 


THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  LAST  SIGH  OF  THE  MOOR. 

The  Spaniards  gave  this  name  to  the  eminence  from  which , 
after  their  expulsion,  the  Moorish  king  and  his  followers  took  their 
farewell  view  of  Grenada. 

WINDING  along  at  break  of  day 

And  armed  with  helm  and  spears, 
Along  the  martyr's  rocky  way 

A  king  comes  with  his  peers: 
Unto  the  eye  a  splendid  sight 
Making  the  air  all  richly  bright, 

Seen  flashing  through  the  trees, — 
But  to  the  heart  a  scene  of  blight, 

Sadder  than  death  are  these. 

For.  brightly  fall  the  morning  rays 

Upon  a  conquered  king ; 
The  breeze  that  with  his  banner  plays 

Plays  with  an  abject  thing: 
Banner  and  king  no  more  will  know 
Their  rightful  place  midst  friend  and  foe. 

Proud  clarion  cease  thy  blast ! 
Or,  changing  to  the  wail  of  wo, 

Breathe  dirges  for  the  past. 

Along,  along,  by  rock  and  tower, 

That  they  have  failed  to  keep, 
By  wood  and  vale,  their  father's  dower. 

The  exiled  warriors  sweep : 
The  chevroned  steed  no  more  elate, 
As  if  he  knew  his  rider's  fate, 

Steps  languidly  and  slow, — 
As  if  he  knew  Grenada's  gate 

Now  open  to  the  foe ! 


MISS   JEWSBURY.  181 

Along,  along,  till  all  is  past 

That  once  they  called  their  own, 
Till  bows  the  pride  of  strength  at  last, 

And  knights  like  women  moan  ! 
Pausing  upon  the  green  hill  side 
That  soon  their  city  towers  will  hide, 

They  lean  upon  their  spears  — 
And  hands  that  late  with  blood  were  dyed, 

Are  now  washed  white  with  tears. 

Another  look  from  brimming  eyes 

Along  the  glorious  plain, 
Elsewhere  may  spread  as  lovely  skies, 

Elsewhere  their  monarch  reign ; 
But  never  more  in  that  bright  land, 
With  all  his  chivalry  at  hand. 

Now  dead  or  far  departed ! 
And  from  the  hill  side  moves  the  band, 

The  bravest,  brokenhearted ! 


SYMBOLS. 

IN  youth  the  heart  is  like  the  bird, 
The  humming-bird  of  eastern  bowers, 

That  ever,  (take  the  traveller's  word) 
Feeds,  flying,  on  the  dews  of  flowers. 

In  manhood,  'tis  the  eagle  bold, 
Borne  upward  to  the  cloud,  the  sky  — 

That  scorns  the  rock  and  mountain-hold, 
Except  to  build  on,  or  to  die. 

16 


182  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

The  sparkler  of  the  woods  is  caught, 
The  eagle's  bosom  pierced  ere  long: 

What  symbol  shall  for  age  be  sought  ? 
What  bird  its  emblem  be  in  song  ? 

The  mocking-bird  its  likeness  be, 
That  hath  no  music  of  its  own ; 

That  sings  with  imitative  glee  — 
The  bird  of  MEMORY  alone. 


THE  WORLD'S  MASdUE. 

"  I  AM  not  old  —  I  am  not  old !  »— 
'Twas  thus  I  heard  one  say, 

"  And  there's  a  spirit  in  my  heart 
That  keeps  old  age  away ; 

'Tis  Lore  — that  like  an  angel  guards 
Life's  fountain  from  decay. 

I  muse  upon  my  fellow-men  — 

To  me  they  are  a  book, 
And  oft  my  fancy  rightly  spells 

Their  thoughts  —  by  word  and  look  ; 
Ay,  many  a  proud  and  weary  wight 

That  searching  ill  would  brook. 

For  this,  I  seek  the  haunts  of  mirth, 
And  those  that  mirth  haunts  least ; 

None  fear  me  —  for  they  deem  me  one 
With  whom  life's  love  hath  ceased : 

They  slip  their  visors,  and  I  see 
The  spectre  at  the  feast ! 


MISS   JEWSBURY.  183 

When  others  praise  the  lute  and  song, 

The  singer  and  his  spell, 
I  gaze  upon  each  listener's  face 

That  can  deep  histories  tell, 
Seeking  the  one,  for  whom,  alas  ! 

The  singer  sang  so  well. 

I  follow,  in  the  track  of  Fame, 
The  path  her  crowned  ones  tread; 

Others  behold  theii  glittering  eyes, 
But  I  their  brows  instead  — 

And  the  momentary  look  that  asks 
For  rest  —  if  with  the  dead  J 

And  when  I  see  a  placid  face 

That  speaks  the  heart  asleep, 
While  others  on  its  beauty  dwell, 

I  —  turn  aside  and  weep ; 
For  all  that,  ere  a  year  be  past, 

May  there  plough  furrows  deep. 

The  man  —  the  man  of  guile  and  care, 

Whose  heart  hath  long  been  dry ; 
A  fountain  whence  no  waters  flow, 

But  weeds  instead  wave  high; 
Others  may  hear  his  courtly  wit, 

I — but  his  smothered  sigh! 

Oh,  fellow-men !  how  often  grief 

Is  on  me  for  your  sakes ! 
And  yet  I  would  not  love  ye  less  — 

For  the  sorrow  that  love  wakes 
Makes  my  heart  prayerful  for  ye  all, 

And  happy  while  it  aches !" 


184  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 


BIRTH-DAY  BALLAD. 

THOU  art  plucking  spring-roses,  Genie, 

And  a  little  red  rose  art  thou; 
Thou  hast  unfolded  to  day,  Genie, 

Another  bright  leaf,  I  trow; 
But  the  roses  will  live  and  die,  Genie, 

Many  and  many  a  time, 
Ere  thou  hast  unfolded  quite,  Genie  — 

Grown  into  maiden  prime. 

Thou  art  looking  now  at  the  birds,  Genie, 

But  oh,  do  not  wish  their  wing, 
That  would  only  tempt  the  fowler,  Genie, 

Stay  thou  on  earth  and  sing; 
Stay  in  the  nursing-nest,  Genie, 

Be  not  soon  thence  beguiled, 
Thou  wilt  ne'er  find  a  second,  Genie ; 

Never  be  twice  a  child. 

Thou  art  building  towers  of  pebbles,  Genie - 

Pile  them  up  brave  and  high  ; 
And  leave  them  to  follow  a  bee,  Genie, 

As  he  wandereth  singing  by ; 
But  if  thy  towers  fall  down,  Genie, 

And  if  the  brown  bee  is  lost, 
Never  weep  —  for  thou  must  learn,  Gennie, 

That  soon  life's  schemes  are  crost. 

Thy  hand  is  in  a  bright  boy's,  Genie, 
He  calls  thee  his  sweet  wee  wife  ; 

But  let  not  thy  little  heart  think,  Genie, 
Childhood  the  prophet  of  life : 


MISS  JEWSBURY.  185 

It  may  be  life's  minstrel,  Genie, 

And  sing  sweet  songs  and  clear ; 
But  minstrel  and  prophet  now,  Genie, 

Are  not  united  here. 

What  will  thy  future  fate  be,  Genie  ? 

Alas !  shall  I  live  to  see ! 
For  thou  art  scarce  a  sapling,  Genie, 

And  I  am  a  moss-grown  tree ! 
I  am  shedding  life's  leaves  fast,  Genie, 

Thou  art  in  blossom  sweet ; 
But  think  betimes  of  the  grave,  Genie, 

Where  young  and  old  oft  meet. 


SONG. 

SHE'S  on  my  heart,  she's  in  my  thoughts 
At  midnight,  morn  and  noon ; 

December's  snow  beholds  her  there, 
And  there  the  rose  of  June. 

I  never  breathe  her  lovely  name 
When  wine  and  mirth  go  round ; 

But  oh,  the  gentle  moonlight  air 
Knows  well  the  silver  sound. 

I  care  not  if  a  thousand  hear 

When  other  maids  I  praise : 
I  would  not  have  my  brother  by, 

When  I  upon  her  gaze. 

The  dews  were  from  the  lily  gone, 

The  gold  has  lost  its  shine, 
If  any  but  my  love  herself 

Could  hear  me  call  her  mine. 
16* 


MARY-ANN   BROWNE.* 


THIS  young  poetess,  daughter  of  the  Vicar  of  Twicken- 
ham, and  reared  in  that  atmosphere  of  the  muses  where 
Pope  lived  and  sung,  gave  early  promise  of  genius.  At  the 
age  of  fifteen  she  published  a  volume — "Ada  and  other  Po- 
ems," which  waa  very  kindly  received  by  the  literary  pub- 
lic, and  gained,  for  its  juvenile  writer,  the  friendship  and 
correspondence  of  sbme  of  the  "  first  and  best  "  of  Eng- 
land's gifted  bards.  Since  that  time  (about  seven  years,) 
she  has  written,  chiefly,  for  the  periodicals  and  annuals. 
In  the  "  Winter's  Wreath "  appeared  "  A  World  without 
Water" — a  truly  wonderful  poem  for  a  young  lady  to  in- 
dite ;  and  though  the  critic,  seeking  for  resemblances,  may 
call  it  a  suggestion  from  Byron's"  Darkness,"  it  is  certainly 
equal  to  Campbell's  '  Last  Man,"  said,  also,  to  be  a  re- 
flection from  the  same  source  of  inspiration. 


•  Many  of  the  latest  poems  of  Miss  Browne,  have  appeared  in 
the  "  Knickerbocker,"  ^tiblisbed  at  New  York,  and  these  have  made 
her  name  known,  and  her  genius  highly  esteemed  in  this  country. 
It  has  been  thought  here  that  she  was  a  relative  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
as  she  bore  the  maiden  surname  of  that  lady— but  we  have  learned 
that  it  is  only  in  soul  and  genius  that  the  relationship  can  be'traced 
—there  is  no  family  affinity.  The  sister  of  Mrs.  Hemans/ who 
composes  music,  is  no  poetess. 


MARY-ANN   BROWNE.  187 

There  is  very  little,  if  any  display,  of  that  sort  of  tender 
and  flowery  description,  which  may  be  termed  sentimental- 
ism,  in  the  poetry  of  Miss  Browne.  She  is  reflective,  se- 
rious, and  at  times  sublime.  Human  nature,  as  its  pas- 
sions and  changes,  hopes  and  fears,  and  joys  are  displayed 
in  books,  and  in  social  life,  seems  to  have  been  her  studyt 
rather  than  "running  brooks,"  or  "flowery  meads."  Hencd 
her  style  has  been  modelled  more  on  the  manner  of  the 
old  bards,  than  is  usual  with  those  who  write  at  so  early  an 
age.  She  condenses  her  thoughts,  and  this  gives  power 
and  energy  to  her  language.  And  the  moral  tone  of  her 
poetry  is  heavenward.  We  think  she  shows  great  promise 
of  future  excellence.  It  requires  much  observation  and  ex- 
perience to  ripen  such  a  mind  as  hers.  Moral  poetry,  par- 
ticularly, when  deduced  from  "  this  scene  of  man,"  must 
be  imbued  with  much  knowledge ;  it  must  teach  the  reason 
as  well  as  touch  the  heart  of  the  reader.  And,  in  some  of 
her  poems,  Mary-Ann  Browne  shows  this  power.  She  has, 
likewise,  a  bold  and  ardent  imagination,  and  delineates  viv- 
idly the  impressions  which  her  fancy  has  suggested.  But 
though  her  genius  expanded  early,  and  has  grown  like  the 
Jasmine  flower,  yet  she  must  bear  in  mind  that  a  woman 


•"  Who  strives  to  soar 


On  learning's  wings,  to  Fame's  bright  sky, 
Far  from  the  crowd  must  seek  that  lore, 

Unheeded  live,  sequestered  die — 
And,  like  the  Jasmine,  when  she's  fled, 

Fame's  rich  perfume  will  ever  keep 
Ling'ring  around  the  faded  dead, 

As  saints  that  watch  some  infant's  sleep." 


188  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


MAN'S  LOVB. 

WHEN  woman's  eye  grows  dull, 

And  her  cheek  paleth, 
When  fades  the  beautiful,. 

Then  man's  love  faileth  : 
He  sits  not  beside  her  chair, 

Clasps  not  her  fingers, 
Twines  not  the  damp  hair, 

That  o'er  her  brow  lingers. 

He  comes  but  a  moment  in, 

Though  her  eye  lightens, 
Though  her  cheek,  pale  and  thin, 

Feverishly  brightens: 
He  stays  but  a  moment  near, 

When  that  flash  fadeth, 
Though  true  affection's  tear 

Her  soft  eyelid  shadeth. 

He  goes  from  her  chamber  straight 

Into  life's  jostle, 
He  meets  at  the  rery  gate 

Business  and  bustle : 
He  thinks  not  of  her  within, 

Slightly  sighing, 
He  forgets,  in  that  noisy  din, 

That  she  is  dying! 

And  when  her  young  heart  is  still, 

What  though  he  mourneth, 
Soon  from  his  sorrow  chill 
Wearied  he  turneth. 


MARY-ANN  BROWNE.  189 

Soon  o'er  her  buried  head 

Memory's  light  setteth, 
And  the  true-hearted  dead 

Thus  man  forgetteth ! 

WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

WHEN  man  is  waxing  frail, 

And  his  hand  is  thin  and  weak, 
And  his  lips  are  parched  and  pale, 

And  wan  and  white  his  cheek, — 
Oh,  then  doth  woman  prove 
Her  constancy  and  love  ! 

She  sitteth  by  his  chair, 

And  holds  his  feeble  hand ; 
She  watcheth  ever  there, 

His  wants  to  understand ; 
His  yet  unspoken  will 
She  hasteneth  to  fulfil. 

She  leads  him,  when  the  noon 

Is  bright  o'er  dale  or  hill, 
And  all  things,  save  the  tune 

Of  the  honey  bees,  are  still, 
Into  the  garden  bowers, 
To  sit  'midst  herbs  and  flowers. 

And  when  he  goes  not  there, 

To  feast  on  breath  and  bloom, 
She  brings  the  posy  rare 

Into  his  darkened  room ; 
And  'neath  his  weary  head 
The  pillow  smooth  doth  spread. 


190  THE  LADIES'  WREATH 

Until  the  hour  when  death 
His  lamp  of  life  doth  dim, 

She  never  wearieth, 
She  never  leaveth  him; 

Still  near  him  night  and  day, 

She  meets  his  eye  alway. 

And  when  his  trial's  o'er, 
And  the  turf  is  on  his  breast, 

Deep  in  her  bosom's  core 
Lie  sorrows  unexprest ; 

Her  tears,  her  sighs,  are  weak, 

Her  settled  grief  to  speak. 

And  though  there  may  arise 
Balm  for  her  spirit's  pain, 

And  though  her  quiet  eyes 
May  sometimes  smile  again ; 

Still,  still,  she  must  regret,— 

She  never  can  forget ! 


A  WORLD  WITHOUT  WATER. 

Yesternight  I  prayed  aloud, 

In  anguish  and  in  agony ; 
Upstarting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me. 

COLERIDG*. 

I  HAD  a  dream  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  dream  of  agony ; 
I  thought  the  world  stood  in  affright, 
Beneath  the  hot  and  parching  light 

Of  an  unclouded  sky ; 


MARY-ANN   BROWNE.  191 

I  thought  there  had  fallen  no  cooling  rain 
For  months  upon  the  feverish  plain, 
And  that  all  the  springs  were  dry  : 

And  I  was  standing  on  a  hill, 

And  looking  all  around : 
I  know  not  how  it  was — but  still 

Strength  in  my  limbs  was  found, 
As  if  with  a  spell  of  threefold  life, 

My  destinies  were  bound. 

Beneath  me  was  a  far-spread  heath, 

Where  once  had  risen  a  spring, 
Looking  as  bright  as  a  silver  wreath 

In  its  graceful  wandering: 
But  now  the  sultry  glance  of  the  sun, 

And  the  glare  of  the  dark  blue  sky, 
Had  checked  its  course, — no  more  to  run 

In  light  waves  wandering  by. 

And  farther  on  was  a  stately  wood, 

With  its  tall  trees  rising  high  : 
But  now  like  autumn  wrecks  they  stood 

Beneath  a  summer  sky : 
And  every  leaf,  though  dead,  did  keep 

Its  station  in  mockery ; 
For  there  was  not  one  breath  to  sweep 

The  leaves  from  each  perishing  tree ; 
And  there  they  hung  dead,  motionless ; 

They  hung  there  day  by  day, 
As  though  Death  were  too  busy  with  other  things 

To  sweep  their  corpses  away. 

Oh,  terrible  it  was  to  think 
Of  human  creatures  then  ! 


192  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

How  they  did  seek  in  vain  for  drink 

In  every  vale  and  glen ; 
And  how  the  scorched  foot  did  shrink 

As  it  touched  the  slippery  plain : 
And  some  had  gathered  beneath  the  trees 

In  hope  of  finding  shade ; 
But  alas !  there  was  not  a  single  breeze 

Astir  in  any  glade! 

The  cities  were  forsaken, 

For  their  marble  wells  were  spent ; 
And  their  walls  gave  back  the  scorching  glare 

Of  that  hot  firmament: 
But  the  corses  of  those  who  died  were  strewn 

In  the  street,  as  dead  leaves  lay, 
And  dry  they  withered — and  withered  alone. 

They  felt  no  foul  decay  ! 

Night  came.     The  fiery  sun  sank  down. 

And  the  people's  hope  grew  strong : 
It  was  a  night  without  a  moon, 
It  was  a  night  in  the  depth  of  June, 

And  there  swept  a  wind  along ; 
'Twas  almost  cool:  and  then  they  thought 
Some  blessed  dew  it  would  have  brought. 

Vain  was  the  hope ! — there  was  no  cloud 

In  the  clear  dark  blue  Heaven; 
But,  bright  and  beautiful,  the  crowd 

Of  stars  looked  through  the  even. 
And  women  sat  them  down  to  weep 

Over  their  hopeless  pain ; 
And  men  had  visions  dark  and  deep, 

Clouding  the  dizzy  brain  ; 
And  children  sobbed  themselves  to  sleep, 

And  never  woke  again ! 


MARY-ANN    BROWNE.  193 

The  morning  came — not  as  it  comes 

Softly  'midst  rose  and  dew — 
Not  with  those  cool  and  fresh  perfumes 

That  the  weariest  heart  renew; 
— But  the  Sun  sprang  up,  as  if  eager  to  see 

What  next  his  power  could  do ! 

A  mother  held  her  child  to  her  breast, 

And  kissed  it  tenderly, 
And  then  she  saw  her  infant  smile : 

What  could  that  soft  smile  be  ? 
A  tear  had  sprung  with  a  sudden  start, 

To  her  hot  feverish  eye ; 
It  had  fallen  upon  that  faint  child's  lip 

That  was  so  parched  and  dry. 

I  looked  upon  the  mighty  Sea; 

Oh,  what  a  sight  it  was ! 
All  its  waves  were  gone,  save  two  or  three, 

That  lay,  like  burning  glass, 
Within  the  caves  of  those  deep  rocks 

Where  no  human  foot  could  pass. 

And  in  the  very  midst,  a  ship 

Lay  in  the  slime  and  sand ; 
With  all  its  sailors  perishing, 

Even  in  sight  of  land  ; 
Oh,  water  had  been  a  welcome  sight 

To  that  pale  dying  band ! 

Oh,  what  a  sight  was  the  bed  of  the  Sea ! 

The  bed  where  he  had  slept, 
Or  tossed  and  tumbled  restlessly, 

And  all  his  treasures  kept 
For  ages:  he  was  gone;  and  all 

His  rocky  pillows  shown, 
17 


194  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

With  their  clustering  shells,  and  sea-weed  pall, 
And  the  rich  gems  round  them  thrown. 

And  the  monsters  of  the  deep  lay  dead, 

With  many  a  human  form, 
That  there  had  found  a  quiet  bed, 

Away  from  the  raging  storm ; 
And  the  fishes,  sodden  in  the  sun, 

Were  strewn  by  thousands  round  ; 
And  a  myriad  things,  long  lost  and  won, 

Were  there,  unsought  for,  found. 

I  turned  away  from  earth  and  sea, 

And  looked  on  the  burning  sky, 
But  no  drop  fell,  like  an  angel's  tear — 

The  founts  of  heaven  were  dry : 
The  birds  had  perished  every  one ; 

Not  a  cloud  was  in  the  air, 
And  desolate  seemed  the  very  Sun, 

He  looked  so  lonely  there ! 

And  I  began  to  feel  the  pang — 

The  agony  of  thirst ; 
I  had  a  scorching  swelling  pain, 

As  if  my  heart  would  burst. 
My  tongue  seemed  parched ;  I  tried  to  speak — 

The  spell  that  instant  broke ; 
And,  starting  at  my  own  wild  shriek, 

In  mercy  I  awoke. 


MARY-ANN  BROWNE.  195 


THE  CLOUDS. 

**  Clouds  now  softly  sailing 

Along  the  deep  blue  sky,  now  fixed  and  still." 

Miss  MTTFORD. 

THE  clouds  !  the  clouds!  they  are  beautiful, 

When  they  sleep  on  the  soft  blue  sky, 
As  if  the  sun  to  rest  could  lull 

Their  snowy  company  j 
And  as  the  wind  springs  up,  they  start, 

And  career  o'er  the  azure  plain ; 
And  before  the  course  of  the  breezes  dart, 

To  scatter  their  balmy  rain. 

The  clouds  i  the  clouds  i  how  change  their  forms 

With  every  passing  breath ; 
And  now  a  glancing  sunbeam  warms, 

And  now  they  look  cold  as  death  ! 
Oh  often  and  often  have  I  escaped 

From  the  stir  of  the  noisy  crowd, 
And  a  thousand  fanciful  visions  shaped 

On  the  face  of  a  passing  cloud. 

The  clouds  !  the  clouds  !  round  the  sun  at  night 

They  come  like  a  band  of  slaves, 
That  are  only  bright  in  the  master's  light, 

And  each  in  his  glory  laves. 
Oh,  they  are  lovely,  lovely  then, 

When  the  heaven  around  them  glows  — 
Now  touched  with  a  purple  and  amber  stain, 

And  now  with  the  hue  of  the  rose. 


196  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

The  clouds !  the  clouds !  in  the  starlit  sky, 

How  they  float  on  the  light  wind's  wings : 
Now  resting  an  instant,  then  glancing  by, 

In  their  fickle  wanderings ! 
Now  they  hide  the  deep  blue  firmament  — 

Now  it  shows  their  folds  between, 
As  if  a  silver  vein  were  rent 

From  the  jewelled  brow  of  a  queen. 

The  clouds!  the  clouds!  they  are  the  lid 

To  the  lightning's  flashing  eye  ; 
And  in  their  fleecy  fold  is  hid 

The  thunder's  majesty ! 
Oh,  how  their  warning  is  proclaimed 

By  the  shrill  blast's  battle  song; 
And  the  tempest's  deadliest  shafts  are  aimed 

From  the  midst  of  the  dark  clouds'  throng. 

The  clouds  !  the  clouds !  my  childish  days 

Are  past  —  my  heart  is  old ; 
But  here  and  there  a  feeling  stays, 

That  never  can  grow  cold  : 
And  the  love  of  nature  is  one  of  these, 

That  time's  wave  never  shrouds : 
And  oft  and  oft  doth  my  soul  find  peace 

In  watching  the  passing  clouds. 


MARY-ANN   BROWNE.  197 


THE  HEART  AND  LYRE. 

SHE  left  her  lyre  within  the  hall, 

When  last  she  parted  with  her  loved ; 
And  still  it  hangs  upon  the  wall  — 

He  will  not  let  it  be  removed. 
Around  that  lyre  of  sweetest  tone 

She  twined  a  wreath  of  roses  fair ; 
And,  though  their  lovely  hue  is  gone. 

The  withered  blossoms  still  are  there. 

No  hand  hath  touched  its  silver  string 
Since  last  she  waked  a  parting  lay: 

To  sweep  its  chords  would  only  bring 
A  tuneless  tale  of  its  decay. 

And  there  it  hangs,  slow  mouldering, 
Its  sweetness  gone,  its  passion  quell'd ; 

And  round  it  those  dead  roses  cling, 
Like  withered  hopes  still  fondly  held. 

And  his  sad  mourning  heart  is  such  — 

No  happy  feeling  it  affords ; 
It  cannot  bear  the  lightest  touch 

Of  mirth  upon  its  ruined  chords. 
Her  name  to  him  they  ne'er  repeat, 

It  would  but  waken  thoughts  of  wo ; 
And  though  'twas  once  so  very  sweet, 

He  could  not  brook  to  hear  it  now. 

He  fixes  on  that  lyre  his  eye 
For  hours,  but  never,  never  speaks ; 

Unmoved  he  gazes,  silently, 
And  only  starts  when  some  chord  breaks. 
17* 


198  THE   LADIES'  WREATH 

It  hath  an  echo  in  his  heart, 

Both  mutely  their  bereavement  bear: 
In  her  affections  both  had  part, 

And  both  are  left  to  perish  there. 


THE  DEPARTED. 

THEY  are  not  there !  where  once  their  feet 
Light  answer  to  sweet  music  beat  — 
Where  their  young  voices  sweetly  breathed, 
And  fragrant  flowers  they  lightly  wreathed. 
Still  flows  the  nightingale's  sweet  song  — 
Still  trail  the  vine's  green  shoots  along  — 
Still  are  the  sunny  blossoms  fair ; 
But  they  who  loved  them  are  not  there ! 

They  are  not  there!  by  the  lone  fount 
That  once  they  loved  at  eve  to  haunt; 
Where,  when  the  day-star  brightly  set, 
Beside  the  silver  wave  they  met : 
Still  lightly  glides  the  quiet  stream  — 
Still  o'er  it  falls  the  soft  moon  beam  ; 
But  they  who  used  its  beams  to  share 
With  fond  hearts  by  it,  are  not  there ! 

They  are  not  there !  by  the  dear  hearth 
That  once  beheld  their  harmless  mirth; 
When  through  their  joy  came  no  vain  fear, 
And  o'er  their  smiles  no  darkening  tear: 
Its  burns  not  now  a  beacon-star  ; 
'Tis  cold  and  fireless  as  they  are: 
Where  is  the  glow  it  used  to  wear? 
'Tis  felt  no  more  — they  are  not  there! 


MARY-ANN    BROWNE.  199 


MEMORY. 

"  Rather  than  have  one  bliss  forgot^ 
Be  all  my  pains  remembered  too." 

MOORE; 

AND  wouldst  thou  advise  me  to  mix  with  the  crowd, 

And  strive  to  efface  the  remembrance  of  years ; 
When,  though  mists  and  misfortune  too  often  might  shroud, 

One  smile  hath  repaid  me  for  long  hours  of  tears? 
And  sayst  thou  that  memory  only  can  feed 

The  fever  that  preys  on  the  desolate  heart? 
Oh !  thou  knowest  not,  unless  thou  hast  felt  it  indeed, 

What  joy  the  remembrance  of  joy  can  impart! 

There  are  things  that  are  past,  which  I  would  not  forget 

For  the  brightest  of  pleasures  that  earth  can  now  give; 
Their  bliss  had  a  mixture  of  sorrow,  and  yet 

Like  stars  in  the  night  of  my  bosom  they  live. 
As  on  scenes  we  have  passed,  when  by  distance  made  soft, 

We  gaze  the  more  fondly  the  further  we  go, 
So,  when  years  of  our  prime  have  gone  over,  how  oft 

We  turn  with  delight  to  past  pleasure  and  wo. 

I  once  felt  affections,  more  gentle  and  fond, 

That  shone  o'er  my  soul,  like  the  stars  o'er  the  seas ; 
And  think'st  thou  my  spirit  can  ever  despond, 

While  memory  revives  such  emotions  as  these  ? 
Oh  !  how  many  a  smile  and  affectionate  word 

Remain  through  long  years  on  the  wo-blighted  mind, 
When  joy  hath  shot  over  its  wastes,  like  a  bird 

That  hath  left  a  bright  gift  from  its  plumage  behind ! 


200  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And  what  though  the  vision  of  happiness  flies 

From  the  heart  that  had  cherished  it  fondly  before  ? 
Its  flowers  may  be  withered,  but  memory  supplies 

Their  vigor,  and  fragrance,  and  beauty  once  more. 
Oh !  may  my  remembrances  never  depart ! 

May  I  still  feel  a  bliss  in  beholding  the  past  — 
While  memory  over  the  gems  of  the  heart 

Shall,  sentinel-like,  keep  her  watch  to  the  last. 


KINDRED  SPIRITS. 

DROPS  from  the  ocean  of  Eternity, 

Rays  from  the  centre  of  unfailing  light, 
Things  that  the  human  eye  can  never  see, 

Are  spirits,  —  yet  they  dwell  near  human  sight! 
But  as  the  shattered  magnet's  fragment  still, 

Though  far  apart,  will  to  each  other  turn,  — 
So,  in  the  breast  imprisoned,  spirits  will 

To  meet  their  fellow  spirits  vainly  burn ; — 
And  ye*  not  vainly.    If  the  drop  shall  pass 

Through  streams  of  human  sorrow  undefiled, — 
If  the  eternal  ray  that  heavenly  was, 

To  no  false  earthly  fire  be  reconciled,  — 
The  drop  shall  mingle  with  its  native  main, 
The  ray  shall  meet  its  kindred  ray  again! 


CAROLINE   BOWLES. 


"ALL  high  poetry  must  be  religious,"  says  Professor 
Wilson.  —  And  who  that  is  conscious  of  possessing  a  soul 
which  longs  for  immortality,  but  feels  the  truth  of  this  doc- 
trine ?  There  is  an  aspiration  in  every  mind  for  something 
higher,  better,  lovelier  than  can  be  found  on  earth ;  and  it 
is  the  holiest  office  of  poesy  to  embody  in  language  these 
vague  yearnings  for  happiness  and  purity,  and  paint,  on  the 
dark  and  torn  canvass  of  human  life,  transparent  and  glow- 
ing pictures  of  heavenly  beauty  and  tranquillity.  Few 
writers  have  done  this  with  more  effect  than  Miss  Bowles. 
There  is  a  sincerity,  a  devotedness,  ay,  and  an  enjoyment 
too,  in  her  religious  musings,  which  shows  that  Christian 
feeling  has  elevated  the  poetic  sentiment  in  her  heart  till 
she  can  sing  of  the  "better  land  "  with  the  sure  and  sweet 
conviction  of  its  reality  and  blessedness. — Would  that  we 
had  room  for  a  larger  number  of  extracts  from  this  poetess, 
as  her  effusions  are  not  as  well  known  in  our  country  as 
they  deserve  to  be.  Her  volume  entitled  "  Solitary  Hours" 
has  never  been  reprinted  here.  And  it  is  only  through  the 
Annals  and  Periodicals  that,  occasionally,  a  strain  of  hers 
is  wafted  across  the  Atlantic.  But  every  true  sister  of  the 
lyre  feels  a  companionship  with  Caroline  Bowles.  And 
she  is  a  model  to  which  we  delight  to  direct  the  attention 


202  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

of  our  young  ladies.  As  the  Myrtle  is  all  beautiful,  leaf, 
flower  and  tree,  so  is  her  poetry  all  worthy  of  our  admira- 
tion and  esteem. 

In  private  life  Miss  Bowles  is  the  Christian  lady,  doing 
good  and  communicating  happiness  in  her  domestic  pur- 
suits as  well  as  by  her  literary  talent.  She  is  sister  of  the 
Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles,  and  in  genius,  as  well  as  in 
its  direction  to  subjects  of  devout  and  benevolent  charac- 
ter, their  tastes  and  minds  harmonize,  like  the  music  from 
instruments  tuned  by  the  same  hand. 


THERE  IS  A  TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF. 

THERE  is  a  tongue  in  every  leaf — 

A  voice  in  every  rill; 
A  voice  that  speaketh  every  where  — 
In  flood  and  fire,  through  earth  and  air  — 

A  tongue  that's  never  still. 

1  Tis  the  Great  Spirit  wide  diffused 

Through  everything  we  see, 
That  with  our  spirits  communeth, 
Of  things  mysterious  —  Life  and  Death, 

Time  and  Eternity. 

I  see  Him  in  the  blazing  sun, 

And  in  the  thunder-cloud ; 
I  hear  him  in  the  mighty  roar 
That  rusheth  through  the  forests  hoar,. 

When  winds  are  piping  loud. 

I  see  Him,  hear  Him  everywhere,— 
In  all  things—  darkness,  light, 


CAROLINE  BOWLES,  203 

Silence  and  sound  —  but  most  of  all, 
When  slumber's  dusky  curtains  fall, 
At  the  dead  hour  of  night. 

I  feel  Him  in  the  silent  dews, 

By  grateful  earth  betrayed ; 
I  feel  him  in  the  gentle  showers, 
The  soft  south  wind,  the  breath  of  flowers, 

The  sunshine  and  the  shade. 

And  yet  (ungrateful  that  I  am  !) 
I've  turned,  in  sullen  mood, 
From  all  these  things,  whereof  He  said, 
When  the  great  whole  was  finished, 
That  they  were  "very  good." 

My  sadness  on  the  loveliest  things 

Fell  like  ungrateful  dew ; 
The  darkness  that  encompassed  me, 
The  gloom  I  felt  so  palpably, 

My  own  dark  spirit  threw. 

Yet  He  was  patient  —  slow  to  wrath, 

Though  every  day  provoked 
By  selfish,  pining,  discontent, 
Acceptance  cold  or  negligent, 

And  promises  revoked ; 

And  still  the  same  rich  feast  was  spread 

For  my  insensate  heart! 
Not  always  so  —  I  woke  again, 
Tojoin  Creation's  rapturous  strain, 

"  Oh  Lord,  how  good  thou  art ! " 

The  clouds  drew  up  —  the  shadows  fled; 

The  glorious  sun  broke  out ; 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  gratitude 
Dispelled  that  miserable  mood 

Of  darkness  and  of  doubt. 


204  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


ABJURATION. 

THERE  was  a  time  — sweet  time  of  youthful  folly !  — 
Fantastic  woes  I  courted  —  feigned  distress ; 

Wooing  the  veiled  phantom,  Melancholy, 
With  passion  born,  like  Love,  in  idleness. 

And  like  a  lover —  like  a  jealous  lover  — 

I  hid  mine  idol  with  a  miser's  art, 
(Lest  vulgar  eyes  her  sweetness  should  discover.) 

Close  in  the  inmost  chambers  of  mine  heart. 

And  there  I  sought  her  —  oft  in  secret  sought  her, 
From  merry  mates  withdrawn,  and  mirthful  play  — 

To  wear  away,  by  some  deep,  stilly  water, 
In  greenwood  lone,  the  live-long  summer  day  ; 

Watching  the  flitting  clouds,  the  fading  flowers, 
The  flying  rack  athwart  the  wavy  grass; 

And  murmuring  oft  —  "  Alack  !  this  life  of  ours  — 
Such  are  its  joys  —  so  swiftly  doth  it  pass!" 

And  then,  mine  idle  tears  (ah,  silly  maiden!) 
Bedropped  the  liquid  glass  like  summer  rain  ; 

And  sighs,  as  from  a  bosom  sorrow-laden, 
Heaved  the  light  heart,  that  knew  no  real  pain. 

And  then,  I  loved  to  haunt  lone  burial-places, 
Pacing  the  churchyard  earth  with  noiseless  tread ; 

To  pore  in  new-made  graves,  for  ghastly  traces, 
Brown,  crumbling  bones  of  the  forgotten  dead; 


CAROLINE  BOWLES.  205 

To  think  of  passing  bells,  of  death  and  dying, — 
Methought  't  were  sweet  in  early  youth  to  die, 

So  loved,  lamented,  in  such  sweet  sleep  lying, 
The  white  shroud  all  with  flowers  and  rosemary 

Strewed  o'er  by  loving  hands  ! — but  then  't  would  grieve  me 
Too  sore,  forsooth!  the  scene  my  fancy  drew; 

I  could  not  bear  the  thought  to  die  and  leave  ye, — 
And  I  have  lived,  dear  friends  !  to  weep  for  you. 

And  I  have  lived  to  prove  that  fading  flowers 
Are  life's  best  joys,  and  all  we  love  and  prize : 

What  chilling  rains  succeed  the  summer  showers ! 
What  bitter  drops,  wrung  slow  from  elder  eyes ! 

And  I  have  lived  to  look  on  death  and  dying,  — 

To  count  the  sinking  pulse  --  the  shortening  breath  ; 

To  watch  the  last  faint  life-streak  flying, — flying, — 
To  stoop  —  to  start —  to  be  alone  with  —  Death. 

And  I  have  lived  to  wear  the  smile  of  gladness, 
When  all  within  was  cheerless,  dark  and  cold ; 

When  all  earth's  joys  seemed  mockery  and  madness, 
And  life  more  tedious  than  "  a  tale  twice  told." 

And  now  —  and  now,  pale,  pining  Melancholy  ! 

No  longer  veiled  for  me  your  haggard  brow 
In  pensive  sweetness  —  such  as  youthful  folly 

Fondly  conceited  —  I  abjure  ye  now. 

Away !  avaunt !  No  longer  now  I  call  ye 
"  Divinest  Melancholy  !  mild,  meek  maid ! " 

No  longer  may  your  siren  spells  enthrall  me, 
A  willing  captive  in  your  baleful  shade. 

Give  me  the  voice  of  mirth  —  the  sound  of  laughter  — 
The  sparkling  glance  of  Pleasure's  roving  eye. 

18 


206  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

The  past  is  past :  avaunt,  thou  dark  hereafter  ! 
"  Come,  eat  and  drink  —  tomorrow  we  must  die ! " 

So,  in  his  desperate  mood,  the  fool  hath  spoken  — 
The  fool  whose  heart  hath  said,  "  There  is  no  God." 

But  for  the  stricken  heart,  the  spirit  broken, 
There 's  balm  in  Gilead  yet.     The  very  rod, 

If  we  but  kiss  it  as  the  stroke  descendeth, 
Distilleth  balm  to  allay  the  inflicted  smart ; 

And  "peace  that  passeth  understanding"  blendeth 
With  the  deep  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart. 

Mine  be  that  holy,  humble  tribulation,  — 
No  longer  feigned  distress  —  fantastic  woe; — 

I  know  my  griefs,  —  but  then  my  consolation, 
My  trust,  and  my  immortal  hopes  I  know. 


AURA  VENI. 

BALMY  freshness !  heavenly  air ! 

Cool,  oh !  cool  this  burning  brow ; 
Loose  the  fiery  circlet  there :  — 

Blessed  thing!  I  feel  ye  now. 

Blessed  thing !  depart  not  yet ; 

Let  me,  let  me  quaff  my  fill : 
Leave  me  not  my  soul  to  fret 

With  longing  for  what  mocks  me  still. 

Oh,  the  weary,  weary  nights 

I  've  lain  awake  and  thought  of  thee  ! 
Of  clouds  and  corn  — and  all  sweet  sights 

Of  shade  and  sunshine,  flower  and  tree  ; 


CAROLINE   BOWLES.  207 

Of  running  waters,  rippling  clear; 

Of  merry  birds,  and  gipsy  camp : 
Then  how  I  loathed  to  see  and  hear 

That  ticking  watch  — that  sickly  lamp,— 

And  longed  at  least  for  light  again  — 

For  day,  that  brought  no  change  to  me  ;  — 

The  weight  was  on  my  heart  and  brain : 
God  might  remove  it  —  only  He. 

But  now  and  then,  the  fount  of  tears, 

So  seeming  dry,  was  free  to  flow  ; 
'T  was  worth  the  happiness  of  years, 

That  short-lived  luxury  of  wo  ! 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  my  pain, 

I  knew  I  was  not  quite  forgot ; 
I  knew  my  cry  was  not  in  vain,  — 

So  I  was  sad,  but  fainted  not. 

And  now  His  merciful  command 

Hath  lightened  what  was  worst  to  bear  — 

And  given  of  better  days  at  hand 
A  foretaste  in  this  blessed  air. 


THE  WOODBINE. 

T'OTHER  evening  I  strolled  down  the  shady,  green  lane, 

All  with  eglantine  arched  overhead, 
Where  the  hare  comes  her  sweet,  dewy  supper  to  pick, 
And  the  banks  are  with  wild-flowers  jewelled  so  thick, 

And  the  turf  is  so  soft  to  the  tread. 


THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

The  woodman's  old  horse,  when  his  harness  is  off, 

Comes  thither,  with  hunger  sore  pressed  ; 
But  so  weary,  he  scarce  crops  a  mouthful  or  so  — 
He  heaves  a  deep  sigh,  with  his  head  hanging  low, 
And  sinks  down  supinely  to  rest. 

And  there,  t'other  evening,  stretched  out  in  my  path, 
All  across  it — poor  creature!  —  he  lay. 

"  Never  mind,  honest  Jack,  take  your  comfort,"  I  said ; 

"  You've  worked  very  hard  for  your  old  master's  bread, 
All  the  hours  I've  idled  away." 

"  And  you  're  idling  them  still,  with  such  babyish  stuff," 

May  Sir  Oracle  gravely  opine. 
"No  matter,  Old  Wisdom,  you  need  not  attend ; 
And  you've  said  the  same  thing  (now  I  think  of  it,  friend) 

Of  lays  better  warbled  than  mine. 

"So  I'll  sing  as  I  please  —  and  you'll  listen  or  not, 

As  it  likes  you,  —  no  matter  to  me  ; 
I  sing,  like  that  little  brown  bird  in  the  brake, 
Because  nature  invites  me  such  joyance  to  make, 

In  her  haunts  to  all  commoners  free." 

So  away  to  my  lane  —  for  I  have  not  yet  done 

With  my  tale  of  that  wonderful  place ; 
How  the  woodman's  old  horse,  though  he  patiently  heard 
My  affecting  address,  never  answered  a  word, 

Though  he  looked  very  hard  in  my  face : 

How  the  hare  started  up  from  a  mole-hill  of  thyme, 

And  a  partridge  chirred  out  at  my  feet ; 
How  the  blackbird  was  singing  his  vesper  so  clear, 
And  a  nightingale  joined  from  a  hazel-copse  near, 

And  the  woodbines  were  temptingly  sweet. 

And  I'll  have  them,  said  I— what  a  nosegay  they'll  make  ! 
How  they  '11  perfume  my  own  bonny  bower ! 


CAROLINE   BOWLES.  209 

And  with  that,  up  the  bank  in  a  moment  was  I, 
And  the  beautiful  prize,  though  suspended  so  high, 
Was  already  almost  in  my  power. 

Almost— but  we  know  an  old  proverb  that  tells 
What  may  hap  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip ; 
So  I  scrambled,  and  reached,  and  just  touched  it  at  last, — 
Yet  another  bold  spring,  and  I'll  have  them  full  fast ; — 
Good  lack!  what  a  terrible  slip ! 

'Twas  a  terrible  slip;  —  down  through  bramble  and  bush 

To  the  ground  in  a  twinkling  I  came ; 
And  my  hands  were  all  scratched,  and  my  gown  was  all 

torn. 
Had  you  seen  it,  ma  bonne !  you'd  have  said,  I'll  be  sworn, 

As  you  used  in  old  time,  "  What  a  shame  !" 

And  then,  to  be  sure,  I  looked  silly  enough, 

And  ashamed  of  my  plight,  as  I  lay ; 
While  the  woodbine  above,  in  its  beautiful  pride, 
Just  flaunted  more  freely,  my  fall  to  deride  ; 

And  methought  the  vain  creature  should  say  — 

"Ah!  ha!  —  keep  your  distance,  poor  dweller  of  earth  ! 

You  may  find  in  your  own  proper  place, 
On  your  own  lowly  level,  contentment  enow ; 
Who  reaches  beyond  it  will  gather,  I  trow, 

Small  guerdon  but  shame  and  disgrace." 


IS* 


210  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  SOME  LATE  AUTUMN 
FLOWERS. 

THOSE  few  pale  autumn  flowers, 

How  beautiful  they  arei 
Than  all  that  went  before, 
Than  all  the  summer  store, 

How  lovelier  far! 

And  why  ?  — They  are  the  last  !— 

The  last!  —  the  last!  — the  last! 
Oh !  by  that  little  word, 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirred  — 

That  sister  of  the  past! 

Pale  flowers !  —  pale,  perishing  flowers ! 

Ye  *re  types  of  precious  things  — 
Types  of  those  bitter  moments, 
That  flit,  like  life's  enjoyments, 

On  rapid,  rapid  wings ; 
i 
Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones, 

(That  time  the  fastest  spends)  — 
Last  tears  in  silence  shed  — 
Last  words  half  uttered  — 

Last  looks  of  dying  friends. 

Who  would  but  fain  compress 

A  life  into  a  day  — 
The  last  day  spent  with  one 
Who,  e'er  the  morrow's  sun, 

Mast  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ! 


CAROLINE   BOWLES.  211 

Oh,  precious,  precious  moments  ! 

Pale  flowers  !  ye  're  types  of  those ; 
The  saddest!  sweetest!  dearest! 
Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 

To  an  eternal  close. 

Pale  flowers !  —  pale,  perishing  flowers  I 

I  woo  your  gentle  breath ; 
I  leave  the  summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows  : — 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death, 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

How  happily,  how  happily,  the  flowers  die  away ; 
Oh,  could  we  but  return  to  earth  as  easily  as  they  I 
Just  live  a  life  of  sunshine,  of  innocence  and  bloom, 
Then  drop,  without  decreptitude  or  pain,  into  the.  tomb. 

The  gay  and  glorious  creatures  !  they  neither  "toil  nor  spin  j" 
Yet  lo  !  what  goodly  raiment  they  're  all  apparelled  in  ; 
No  tears  are  on  their  beauty,  but  dewy  gems  more  bright 
Than  ever  brow  of  eastern  queen,  endiademed  with  light. 

The  young  rejoicing  creatures  !  their  pleasures  never  pall ; 
Nor  lose  in  sweet  contentment,  because  so  free  to  all ! 
The  dew,  the  shower,  the  sunshine,  the  balmy  blessed  jiir, 
Spend  nothing  of  their  freshness,  tho'  all  may  freely  share. 

The  happy  careless  creatures  !  of  time  they  take  no  heed; 
Nor  weary  of  his  creeping,  nor  tremble  at  his  speed ; 
Nor  sigh  with  sick  impatience,  and  wish  the  light  away; 
Nor  when  'tis  gone  cry  dolefully,  "  would  God  that  it  were 
day ! » 


212  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

And  when  their  lives  are  over,  they  drop  away  to  rest, 
Unconscious  of  the  penal  doom,  on  holy  Nature's  breast 
No  pain  have  they  in  dying,  no  shrinking  from  decay  ; 
Oh !  could  we  but  return  to  earth  as  easily  as  they  ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

'Tis  ever  thus— 'tis  ever  thus,  when  Hope  has  built  a  bower, 
Like  that  of  Eden,  wreathed  about  with  every  thornless 

flower, 

To  dwell  therein  securely,  the  self-deceiver's  trust, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  desert  comes  —  and  "  all  is  in  the 

dust ! " 

'Tis  ever  thus  —  'tis  ever  thus,  that  when  the  poor  heart 

clings 

With  all  its  finest  tendrils  — with  all  its  flexile  rings, — 
That  goodly  thing  it  cleaveth  too,  so  fondly  and  so  fast, 
Is  struck  to  earth  by  lightning,  or  shattered  by  the  blast. 

'Tis  ever  thus  —  'tis  ever  thus,  with  beams  of  mortal  bliss — 
With  looks  too  bright  and  beautiful  for  such  a  world  as  this  ; 
One  moment  round  about  us,  their  "Angel  lightnings"*  play, 
Then  down  the  veil  of  darkness  drops,  and  all  hath  past 
away. 

'Tis  ever  thus  —  'tis  ever   thus,  with  creatures  heavenly 

fair  — 
Too  finely  framed  to  'bide  the  brunt,  more  earthly  natures 

bear:  — 

A  little  while  they  dwell  with  us  —  blest  ministers  of  love, 
Then  spread  the  wings  we  had  not   seen,  and  seek  their 

home  above. 

*  n  lampeggiar  del  angelico  rico. 


MARY    RUSSELL    MITFORD. 


Miss  MITFORD  has  written  pleasant  poems  and  success- 
ful tragedies,  and  yet  we  did  hesitate  about  introducing  her 
name  in  our  Wreath.  Not  that  we  love  her  poetry  less  than 
that  of  others,  but  her  prose  more.  And  then  we  felt  that 
we  could  not  do  her  justice.  Rienzi  is  a  splendid  produc- 
tion, but  it  requires  to  be  seen  on  the  stage,  in  action,  to 
understand  its  superior  excellences — such  extracts  as  our 
limits  allow  will  only  mar  its  beauties.  Her  poems,  too, 
have  chiefly  been  written  for  the  annuals,  as  illustrations  of 
engravings,  and,  detached  from  these  historical  scenes,  lose 
half  their  interest. 

But  what  matters  it?  Who  does  not  know  and  love  the 
author  of  "  Our  Village  ?  " — whose  charming  descriptions 
have  made  the  rural  life  of  the  English  villager  as  familiar 
to  Americans  as  though  we  were  "  neighbors  over  the  way  ! " 
In  these  descriptions  Mary  Mitford  is  unrivalled.  She  has 
a  manner,  natural  to  her,  no  doubt,  but  inimitable  and  in- 
describable, which  sheds  interest  around  the  most  homely 
subjects  and  coarsest  characters.  Who  ever  threw  by  a 
sketch  of  hers  half  read  ?  No  one  who  admired  a  spring 
daisy — or  that  most  fragrant  blossom,  the  wall-flower, 
which  beautifies  every  object,  however  rough,  rude  or  ruin- 
ous, around  which  it  wreathes.  And,  though  she  does  not 
trace  the  motives  of  conduct  very  deeply,  or  attempt  to 


214  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

teach  principles  of  moral  duty,  yet  there  is  much  in  her 
sprightly  and  warm  sketches  of  simple  nature  which  draws 
the  heart  to  love  the  Author  of  all  this  beauty ;  and  much 
in  her  kind  and  contented  philosophy  to  promote  love  and 
good  feelings.  She  is  a  philanthropist,  for  she  joys  in  the 
happiness  of  others— a  patriot,  for  she  draws  the  people  to 
feel  the  beauties  and  blessings  which  surround  the  most 
lowly  lot  in  that  "  land  of  proud  names  and  high  heroic 
deeds." 

Well,  we  must  go  back  to  her  poesy  :  that  is  our  present 
subject.  "  Rienzi  "  has  placed  Miss  Mitford  in  a  high  rank 
as  a  dramatic  poetess.  It  has  many  powerful  passages,  and 
shows  a  bold  fancy,  and  refined  and  ingenious  taste  in  its 
construction  and  management.  There  is,  also,  that  gentle- 
ness and  simplicity  in  the  character  of  Claudia,  and  those 
home  descriptions  and  feelings  which  reveal  the  intelligent 
observer  of  nature  and  of  the  heart.  As  a  historic  legend 
it  is  sustained  with  great  talent;  but  this  kind  of  invention, 
which  gathers  and  combines  the  pomp  of  fictitious  circum- 
stance around  real  events  and  actual  personages,  we  do 
not  consider  the  loftiest  attribute  of  genius.  Minds  of  the 
highest  order  have  a  creative  power,  so  to  speak,  compounded 
of  imagination  and  reason,  which  can  form  its  legend  from 
the  world  within  the  soul.  The  "  Count  Basil,"  of  Joanna 
Baillie,  compared  with  "  Rienzi,"  will  illustrate  our  mean- 
ing. The  genius  of  Mary  Mitford  is  like  the  fairy  skill, 
which  can  transmute  "chucky  stones"  into  diamonds: 
there  is  a  genius  which  does  not  need  the  aid  of  stones,  but 
can  think  diamonds. 

But  if  we  do  not  place  Mary  Mitford  among  the  very 
highest  talent,  we  consider  her  one  of  the  brightest  living 
ornaments  of  female  literature.  Her  descriptions  of  rural 
and  domestic  life  are  patterns  of  sentiment  and  style,  which 
we  commend,  not  for  imitation,  as  that  is  never  well,  but 
for  study  and  admiration  to  our  young  ladies.  And  then 
her  own  example  is  a  pattern.  She  is  no  longer  a  very 


MISS  MITFORD.  215 

young  lady,  but  retains  the  cheerfulness  and  dispenses 
around  her  the  happiness  of  youth.  She  resides  with  her 

father,   who  is  vicar  of  Reading,  in shire,  and 

manages  the  domestic  duties  of  lady  of  the  parsonage  with 
the  same  ease  and  grace  with  which  she  pursues  her  distin- 
guished literary  career. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  "RIENZI." 

HOME    AND  LOVE. 

Hie.  CLAUDIA  —  nay,  start  not!  Thou  art  sad  to-day; 
I  found  thee  sitting  idly,  'midst  thy  maids  — 
A  pretty,  laughing,  restless  band,  who  plied 
duick  tongue  and  nimble  finger.     Mute,  and  pale 
As  marble,  those  unseeing  eyes  were  fixed 
On  vacant  air ;  and  that  fair  brow  was  bent 
As  sternly,  as  if  the  rude  stranger,  Thought, 
Age-giving,  mirth-destroying,  pitiless  Thought, 
Had  knocked  at  thy  young  giddy  brain. 

Cla.  Nay,  father, 
Mock  not  thine  own  poor  Claudia. 

Rie.  Claudia  used 

To  bear  a  merry  heart  with  that  clear  voice. 
Prattling ;  and  that  light  busy  foot,  astir 
In  her  small  housewifery,  the  blithest  bee 
That  ever  wrought  in  hive. 

Cla.  Oh  !  mine  old  home  ! 

JRie.Whvit   ails  thee,  lady-bird? 

Cla.  Mine  own  dear  home ! 
Father,  I  love  not  this  new  state  ;  these  halls, 
Where  comfort  dies  in  vastness ;  these  trim  maids, 
Whose  service  wearies  me.     Oh !  mine  old  home  ! 
My  quiet,  pleasant  chamber,  with  the  myrtle, 


216  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Woven  round  the  casement ;  and  the  cedar  by, 
Shading  the  sun ;  my  garden  overgrown 
With  flowers  and  herbs,  thick-set  as  grass  in  fields; 
My  pretty  snow-white  doves ;  my  kindest  nurse ; 
And  old  Camillo.  —  Oh!  mine  own  dear  home! 

Rie.  Why,  simple  child,  thou  hast  thine  old  fond  nurse, 
And  good  Caraillo,  and  shall  have  thy  doves, 
Thy  myrtles,  flowers,  and  cedars ;  a  whole  province 
Laid  in  a  garden  an'  thou  wilt.    My  Claudia, 
Hast  thou  not  learnt  thy  power?     Ask  orient  gems, 
Diamonds,  and  sapphires,  in  rich  caskets,  wrought 
By  cunning  goldsmiths ;  sigh  for  rarest  birds, 
Of  farthest  Ind.  like  winged  flowers  to  flit 
Around  thy  stately  bower;  and,  at  thy  wish, 
The  precious  toys s1: all  wait  thee.     Old  Camillo! 
Thou  shall  have  nobler  servants,  —  emperors,  kings, 
Electors,  princes  !  Not  a  bachelor 
In  Christendom  but  would  right  proudly  kneel 
To  my  fair  daughter. 

Cla.  Oh  I  mine  own  dear  home  ! 

Rie..  Wilt  have  a  list  to  choose  from?  Listen,  sweet! 
If  the  tall  cedar,  and  the  branchy  myrtle, 
And  the  white-doves,  were  tell-tales,  I  would  ask  them 
Whose  was  ihe  shadow  on  ihe  sunny  wall  ? 
And  if,  al  evenlide  ihey  heard  nol  oft 
A  luneful  mandoline,  and  ihen  a  voice, 
Clear  in  ils  manly  depth,  whose  tide  of  song 
O'erwhelmed  the  quivering  instrumenl ;  and  ihen 
A  world  of  whispers,  mixed  with  low  response, 
Sweet,  short,  and  broken  as  divided  strains 
Of  nightingales. 

Cla.  Oh,  father !  falher !    {runs  to  Aim,  and  falls  upon 
his  neck.'} 

Rie.  Well! 
Dost  love  him,  Claudia? 

Cla.  Father! 


MISS  MITPORD.  217 

Hie.  Dost  thou  love 

Young  Angelo?  Yes?  Saidst  thou  yes  ?  That  heart  — 
That  throbbing  heart  of  thine,  keeps  such  a  coil, 
I  cannot  hear  thy  words.    He  is  returned 
To  Rome ;  he  left  thee  on  mine  errand,  dear  one ; 
And  now  —  is  there  no  casement  myrtle-wreathed, 
No  cedar  in  our  courts,  to  shade  to-night 
The  lover's  song  ? 

Cla.  Oh,  father!  father! 

Rie.  Now, 

Back  to  thy  maidens,  with  a  lightened  heart, 
Mine  own  beloved  child.     Thou  shalt  be  first 
In  Rome,  as  thou  art  fairest ;  never  princess 
Brought  to  the  proud  Colonna  such  a  dower 
As  thou.    Young  Angelo  hath  chosen  his  mate 
From  out  an  eagle's  nest. 

Cla.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

I  tremble  at  the  height.    Whene'er  I  think 
Of  the  hot  barons,  of  the  fickle  people, 
And  the  inconstancy  of  power,  I  tremble 
For  thee,  dear  father. 

Hie.  Tremble !  let  them  tremble. 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia,  whom  they  scorned, 
Endured,  protected. — Sweet,  go  dream  of  love ! 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia. 

CLAUDIA  PLEADING  FOR  HER  HUSBAND. 

Cla.  [Without.]  Father!  father! 
Rie.  Guard  the  door ! 
Be  sure  ye  give  not  way. 
Cla.  [without.']  Father! 
Rie.  To  see 
Her  looks!  her  tears! 

Enter  CLAUDIA  hastily. 
Cla.  Who  dares  to  stop  me  ?    Father ! 

[Rushes  into  the  arms  of  Rienzi. 
19 


218  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 

Rie.  I  bade  ye  guard  the  entrance. 

Cla.  Against  me ! 

Ye  must  hare  men  and  gates  of  steel,  to  bar 
Claudia  from  her  dear  father.     Where  is  he? 
They  said  he  was  with  you — he  —  thouknow'st 
Whom  I  would  say.     I  heard  ye  loud.    I  thought 
I  heard  ye  ;  but  perchance,  the  dizzying  throb 
Of  my  poor  temples  —  Where  is  he  ?    I  see 
No  corse  —  an'  he  were  dead  — Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! 
Thoucould'st  not,  would'st  not !  say  he  lives. 

Rie.  As  yet 
He  lives. 

Cla.  Oh  !  blessings  on  thy  heart,  dear  father  ! 
Blessings  on  thy  kind  heart !    When  shall  I  see  him  ? 
Is  he  in  prison  ?    Fear  hath  made  me  weak, 
And  wordless  as  a  child.     Oh !  send  for  him.  — 
Thou  hast  pardoned  him ; —  didst  thou  not  say  but  now 
Thou  hadst  pardoned  him  ? 

Rie.  No. 

Cla.  Oh,  thou  hast !  thou  hast ! 
This  is  the  dalliance  thou  wast  wont  to  hold 
When  I  have  craved  some  girlish  boon,  —  a  bird, 
A  flower,  a  moonlight  walk  ;  but  now  I  ask  thee 
Life, more  than  life.     Thou  hast  pardoned  him? 

Rie.  My  Claudia  ! 

Cla.  Ay  !  I  am  thine  own  Claudia,  whose  first  word 
Was  father!     These  are  the  same  hands  that  clung 
Around  thy  knees,  a  totterring  babe ;  the  lips 
That,  ere  they  had  learnt  speech,  would  smile,  and  seek 
To  meet  thee  with  an  infant's  kiss  ;  these  eyes 
Thou  hast  called  so  like  my  mother's,  eyes  that  never 
Looked  on  thee,  but  with  looks  of  love.  —  Oh,  pardon  ! 
Nay,  father,  speak  not  yet ;  thy  brows  are  knit 
Into  a  sternness.     Pr'ythee  speak  not  yet ! 

Rie.  This  traitor  — 

Cla.  Call  him  as  thou  wilt,  but  pardon  ! 
Oh,  pardon !  [Kneels. 


MISS   MITFORD.  219 

Rie.  He  defies  me. 

Cla.  See,  I  kneel. 
And  he  shall  kneel,  shall  kiss  thy  feet ;  wilt  pardon  ? 

Rie.  Mine  own  dear  Claudia. 

Cla.  Pardon! 

Rie.  Raise  thee  up ; 

Rest  on  my  bosom ;  let  thy  beating  heart 
Lie  upon  mine ;  so  shall  the  mutual  pang 
Be  stilled.     Oh !  that  thy  father's  soul  could  bear 
This  grief  for  thee,  my  sweet  one !     Oh,  forgive  — 

Cla.  Forgive  thee  what  ?     ;Tis  so  the  headsman  speaks 
To  his  poor  victim,  ere  he  strikes.     Do  fathers 
Make  widows  of  their  children  ?  send  them  down 
To  the  cold  grave  heart-broken  1     Tell  me  not 
Of  fathers  — I  have  none  !     All  else  that  breathes 
Hath  known  that  natural  love  ;  the  wolf  is  kind 
To  her  vile  cubs  ;  the  little  wren  hath  care 
For  each  small  young  one  of  her  brood;  and  thou-  - 
The  word  that  widowed,  orphaned  me  ?     Henceforth 
My  home  shall  be  his  grave  ;  and  yet  thou  canst  not  — 
Father !  [Rushing  into  Rienzi's  arms.] 

Rie.  Ay  !  Dost  call  me  father  onee  again,  my  Claudia, 
Mine  own  sweet  child  ! 

Cla.  Oh,  father,  pardon  him  ! 
Oh  pardon,  pardon!    'T  is  my  life  I  ask 
In  his.    Our  lives,  dear  father ! 

Rie.  Ho,  Camillo ! 

Where  loiters  he  ?  [Enter  Camillo. 

Camillo,  take  my  ring ; 
Fly  to  the  captain  of  the  guard,  Alberti ; 
Bid  him  release  Lord  Angelo. 

Cla.  Now  bless  thee,— 
Bless  thee,  my  father ! 

Rie.  Fly,  Camillo,  fly  ! 
Why  loiterest  thou? 

Cam.  The  ring. 

[Rienzi  gives  the  ring  to  Camillo  — Exit  Camillo. 


THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 


INFLEXIBLE   JUSTICE. 

Rie.  This  is  justice, 

Pure  justice,  not  revenge  !  — Mark  well,  my  lords  — 
Pure,  equal  justice.     Martin  Ursini 
Had  open  trial,  is  guilty,  is  condemned. 
And  he  shall  die  ! 

Col.  Yet  listen  to  us  — 

Rie.  Lords, 

If  ye  could  range  before  me  all  the  peers, 
Prelates  and  potentates  of  Christendom, — 
The  holy  pontiff  kneeling  at  my  knee, 
And  emperors  crouching  at  my  feet,  to  sue 
For  this  great  robber,  still  I  should  be  blind 
As  Justice..    But  this  very  day  a  wife, 
One  infant  hanging  at  her  breast,  and  two, 
Scarce  bigger,  first-born  twins  of  misery, 
Clinging  to  the  poor  rags  that  scarcely  hid 
Her  squalid  form,  grasped  at  my  bridal  rein 
To  beg  her  husband's  life  ;  condemned  to  die 
For  some  vile  petty  theft,  some  paltry  scudi : 
And,  whilst  the  fiery  war-horse  chafed  and  reared, 
Shaking  his  crest,  and  plunging  to  get  free, 
There,  midst  the  dangerous  coil,  unmoved  she  stood, 
Pleading  in  piercing  words,  the  very  cry 
Of  nature  !     And,  when  I  at  last  said  no  — 
For  I  said  no  to  her  —  she  flung  herself 
And  those  poor  innocent  babes  between  the  stones 
And  my  hot  Arab's  hoofs.     We  saved  them  all, 
Thank  Heaven,  we  saved  them  all !  but  I  said  no 
To  that  sad  woman  midst  her  shrieks.    Ye  dare  not 
Ask  for  mercy  now. 


MISS   MITPORD.  221 


THE  MORNING  WALK. 

Tis  a  bright  summer  morn,  and  the  sunlight  proud 
Gleams  on  the  water,  and  sleeps  on  the  cloud, 
Fitfully  glitters  the  wood-path  between, 
And  casts  a  broad  glow  on  the  shadowy  green. 

And  a  lovely  lady  is  walking  there, 

Placid,  and  gentle,  and  smiling,  and  fair, 

With  the  grace  of  a  queen  in  her  gay  palace  bowers, 

And  a  foot  that  seems  born  to  tread  only  on  flowers. 

And  beside  that  fair  lady,  so  stately  and  mild, 
Mild,  stately,  and  graceful  —  a  tottering  child, 
With  her  dimpled  hand  on  her  dimpled  knee, 
Stands,  like  a  model  of  infancy. 

And  fair  as  they  seem  in  the  morn's  dewy  light, 
The  beautiful  child,  and  the  lady  so  bright ; 
We  feel,  as  we  view  them,  a  sympathy  live 
Truer,  purer,  and  deeper,  than  beauty  can  give. 

For  there  harbors  love,  with  its  smiles  and  its  tears, 
Its  tender  forbodings,  its  tenderer  fears, 
And  its  hopes,  the  sweetest  on  earth  that  rest  — 
The  matchless  love  of  a  mother's  breast. 

'T  is  that  which  lends  life  to  her  form's  proud  grace, 
Which  awakens  the  charms  of  her  sparkling  face ; 
Her  glance  may  be  wandering  around  the  wide  land, 
But  her  thoughts  on  the  treasure  she  holds  by  the  hand. 
19* 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


PART  SECOND. 


LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. 

WE  have  now  arrived  at  the  part  assigned  to  our  Amer- 
ican Poetesses ;  and  it  is  with  no  small  pleasure  as  well  as 
pride  that  we  may  begin  our  list  with  a  name  deservedly 
honored  and  distinguished.  The  task  of  examining  the 
productions  and  judging  the  literary  merit  of  living  and 
cotemporary  writers,  is  a  difficult  and  delicate  one,  more 
especially  when  those  writers  are  our  own  countrywomen, 
and  esteemed  correspondents  or  personal  friends.  —  But 
respecting  the  talents  and  merits  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  there 
will  be  no  doubt  or  cavil.  She  has  nobly  won  her  high 
place  in  the  literature  of  our  country. 

Lydia  Huntley  was  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut.  She 
was  the  only  child  of  her  parents,  and  reared  with  great 
tenderness.  Her  parentage  was  in  that  happy  mediocrity 
of  fortune  which  requires  industry,  yet  encourages  hope  — 
and  the  habits  of  order  and  diligence,  to  which  she  was 
sedulously  trained  by  her  judicious  mother,  have,  no  doubt, 
been  of  inestimable  advantage  to  the  poetess.  She  early 
exhibited  indications  of  genius  —  perhaps  the  loneliness  of 
her  brotherless  and  sisterless  lot  had  an  influence  in  sub- 


224  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

stituting  intellectual  pursuits  for  the  common   sports  of 
childhood.     We  are  by  no  means  in  favor  of  establishing 
precocity  of  intellect  as  the  standard  of  real  genius;  yet  it 
is  certain  that  many  distinguished  persons  have  been  mark- 
ed in  childhood  as  extraordinary  —  the  opening  blossom 
has  given  forth  the  sweet  odor  which  the  rich  fruit,  like 
lhat  of  the  Mangostan,  embodies  in  its  delicious  perfection. 
—  At  eight  years  of  age,  the  little  Lydia  was  a  scribbler 
of  rhymes  —  like  Pope  lisping  in  numbers.     Her  first  work 
was  published  in  1815.     It  was  a  small  volume,  entitled 
"  Miscellaneous  Piece*  in  Prose  and  Verse."    Before  this 
period,  however,  she  had,  fortunately  met  with  a  judicious 
and  most  generous  patron.     To  Daniel  Wadsworth,  Esq., 
of  Hartford,  belongs  the  tribute  of  praise  which  is  due  for 
drawing  such  a  mind  from  the  obscurity  where  it  had  re- 
mained "  afar  from  the  un  tasted  sunbeam.-'    In  1819  Miss 
Huntley  was  married  to  Charles  Sigourney,  a  respectable 
merchant  of  Hartford,  and  a  gentleman  of  cultivated  taste 
and  good  literary  attainments.  —  From  that  period   Mrs. 
Sigourney  has  devoted  the  leisure  which  the  wife  of  a  man 
of  wealth  may  always  command,  to  literary  pursuits.     And 
her  improvement  has  been  rapid  and  great.  —  Her  publish- 
ed works  are  "  Traits  of  the  Aborigines  "  a  Poem,  written 
in  blank  verse  :    "  Connecticut  Forty  Years  Since  "  —  a 
prose  volume,  principally  of  traditionary  description:  three 
volumes  of  "  Poems  "  —  a  volume  of  prose  "  Sketches  "  — 
"  Letters  to  Young  Ladies  "  —  and  a  number  of  small  books 
for  children.  —  In  all  these  works,  varied  as  they  are  in 
style  and  subject,  one  purpose  is  recognised  as  the  gov- 
erning motive  —  the  purpose  of  doing  good.  —  In  her  prose 
writings,  this  zeal  of  heart  is  the  great  charm.     She  always 
describes  nature  with  a  lover's  feelings  for  its  beauties, 
and  with  much  delicacy  and  taste ;  still  we  think  her  tal- 
ent for  description  is  much  more  graceful  and  at  home  in 
the  measured  lines  of  her  poetry,  than  in  her  best  prose. 
Her  genius  brightens  in  the  Muses'  smile,  and  she  can 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  225 

command  by  that  spell,  as  Prospero  could  with  his  staff, 
the  attendance  of  the  "  delicate  spirit "  of  Fancy,  which, 
like  Ariel,  brings 

"Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not:  " 

and  those  "  solemn  breathing  strains  "  that  move  conscience 
to  its  repentant  work,  or  lift  the  trusting  and  contrite  soul 
to  heaven. 

"  Oh  God  !  who  can  describe  Niagara?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Butler,  in  the  agony  of  her  admiration.  Mrs.  Sigourney 
has  described  it,  and  worthily  too — and  this  single  poem 
would  be  sufficient  to  establish  her  fame.  It  does  more  and 
better,  it  stamps  her  as  the  devoted  Christian ;  for  except 
faith  in  the  "  dread  Invisible  "  had  sustained  her  genius,  and 
trust  in  the  Savior  had  kepfwarm  the  fount  of  sympathy  in 
her  heart,  she  could  not  have  surrounded  a  theme  so  awful, 
strange  and  lonely,  with  such  images  of  beauty  and  hope. 

True  it  is,  that  female  poetic  writers  owe  their  happiest 
efforts  to  religious  feelings.  Devotion  seems  to  endow  them 
with  the  martyr's  glowing  fervency  of  spirit.  In  the  actu- 
al world  the  path*of  woman  is  very  circumscribed,  but  in 
that  "better  land"  her  imagination  may  range  with  the 
freedom  of  an  angel's  wing.  And  there  the  genius  of  Mrs. 
Sigourney  delights  to  expatiate.  And  this  constant  uplift- 
ing of  her  spirit  has  given  a  peculiar  cast  to  her  language 
and  style ;  rendering  the  stately  blank  verse  measure  the 
readiest  vehicle  of  her  fancies.  She  has  a  wonderful  com- 
mand of  words,  and  the  fetters  of  rhyme  check  the  free  ex- 
pression of  her  thoughts.  She  is  also  endowed  with  a  fine 
perception  of  the  harmonious  and  appropriate,  and  hence 
the  smooth  flow  of  the  lines,  and  the  perfect  adaptation  of 
the  language  to  the  subject.  These  qualities  eminently 
fit  her  to  be  the  eulogist  of  departed  worth ;  and  incline 
her  to  elegiac  poetry.  To  her  tender  feelings  and  natu- 
rally contemplative  mind,  every  knell  that  summons  the 


226  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

mourner  to  weep,  awakens  her  sympathy,  and  the  dirge 
flows,  as  would  her  tears,  to  comfort  the  bereaved  were  she 
beside  them.  Nor  is  the  death  song  of  necessity  melan- 
choly. Many  of  hers  sound  the  notes  of  holy  triumph,  and 
awaken  the  brightest  anticipations  of  felicity — ay, 

"  Teach  us  of  the  melody  of  heaven." 

She  "  leaves  not  the  trophy  of  death  at  the  tomb,"  but 
shows  us  the  "  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  Thus  she  ele- 
vates the  hopes  of  the  Christian,  and  chastens  the  thoughts 
of  the  worldly  minded.  This  is  her  mission,  the  true  pur- 
pose of  her  heaven-endowed  mind  ;  for  the  inspirations  of 
genius  are  from  heaven,  and,  when  not  perverted  by  a  cor- 
rupt will,  rise  as  naturally  upward  as  the  morning  dew  on 
the  flower  is  exhaled  to  the  skies.  The  genius  of  Mrs. 
Sigourney,  like  the  "  imperial  Passion  Flower,"  has  al- 
ways been 

"  Consecrate  to  Salem's  peaceful  ting, — 
Though  fair  as  any  gracing  beauty's  bower, 
Yet  linked  to  sorrow  like  a  holy  thing." 

It  is  this  sadness  which  shows  her  strains  to  be  of  earth 
— their  purity,  and  serene  loveliness  are  angelic.  If  there 
is  a  want  felt  in  reading  her  effusions,  it  is  that  of  ferven- 
cy :  the  light  is  brilliant,  but  it  does  not  kindle  into  flame. 
Her  "truths"  need  to  be  more  "impassioned,"  to  produce 
their  greatest  effect.  Yet  this  deficiency  arises  from  that 
delicacy  of  taste,  which  makes  her  fear  to  pour  forth  the 
full  gush  of  her  feelings.  And  it  is  very  rare  that  a  woman 
can  or  will  do  this.  Hence  much  of  the  monotony  and 
mediocrity  of  their  poetry. 

We  must  not  omit  to  record  that  Mrs.  Sigourney  is  an 
example  to  her  sex  in  private  life,  as  well  as  their  ad- 
miration in  her  public  career.  She  is  a  good  wife  and  de- 
roted  mother ;  she  has  two  children,  whom  she  has  hither- 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  227 

to  educated  entirely  herself— and  in  all  domestic  knowl- 
edge and  the  scrupulous  performance  of  domestic  duties, 
she  shows  as  ready  acquaintance  and  as  much  skill  as 
though  these  only  formed  her  pursuit.  Her  literary  studies 
are  her  recreation — surely  as  rational  a  mode  of  occupying 
the  leisure  of  a  lady,  as  the  morning  call,  or  the  fashion- 
able party. 


NIAGARA. 

FLOW  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty — God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet. — And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence,  and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

And  who  can  dare 

To  lift  the  insect  trump  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love,  or  sorrow,  —  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn?  —  Even  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  his  wild  waves 
Retire  abashed.  —  For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 
To  sleep  like  a  spent  laborer,  and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm :  —  but  thou. 
With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 
Dost  rest  not  night  or  day. 


THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

The  morning  stars, 

When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem,  —  and  those  wrecking  fires 
That  wait  the  Archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
The  solid  earth,  shall  find  Jehovah's  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 
On  thine  unfathomed  page.  —  Each  leafy  bough 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  proud  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
And  tremble  at  the  baptism.  —  Lo!  yon  birds 
Do  venture  boldly  near,  bathing  their  wing 
Amid  thy  foam  and  mist  —  'Tis  meet  for  them 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  —  or  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapor  wreath,— 
Who  sport  unharmed  upon  the  fleecy  cloud, 
And  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven, 
Without  reproof.    But  as  for  us,  —  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful  with  our  broken  tones  to  speak 
Familiarly  of  thee.  —  Methinks,  to  tint 
Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point. 
Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song, 
Were  profanation. 

Thou  dost  make  the  soul 
A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty  ; 
And  while  it  rushes  with  delirious  joy 
To  tread  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 
And  check  its  rapture  with  the  humbling  view 
Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 
In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible. 
As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  229 


WINTER. 

I  DEEM  thee  not  unlovely,  —  though  thou  com'st 
With  a  stern  visage.  —  To  the  tuneful  bird,  — 
The  tender  flow'ret,  —  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  discipline  is  harsh.  —  But  unto  Man 
Methinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry,  — 
Thy  lengthened  eve  is  full  of  fire-side  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart ; 
So  that  the  hoarse  stream  passes  by  unheard.  — 
Earth,  rob'd  in  white,  a  peaceful  Sabbath  holds, 
And  keepeth  silence  at  her  Maker's  feet. — 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough, 
And  from  the  harvest  shouting.  — 

Man  should  rest 

Thus  from  his  fevered  passions,  —  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  health.  — As  the  tossed  bark 
Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay, 
To  trim  its  shattered  cordage,  and  repair 
Its  riven  sails.  —  So  should  the  toil-worn  mind 
Refit  for  Time's  rough  voyage.  —  Man,  perchance, 
Soured  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  —  or  impaired 
By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer's  way, 
Turns,  like  a  truant  scholar  toward  his  home, 
And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 
That  purify  and  save.  — 

The  ruddy  boy 

Comes  with  his  shouting  school-mates  from  their  sport, 
On  the  smooth  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 
Hangs  pure  and  cold,  its  silver  cressit  forth ; 
20 


230  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

And,  throwing  off  his  skates,  with  boisterous  glee, 
Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.  —  Her  tender  hand 
Doth  shake  the  snow-flakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 
And  draw  him  nearer,  and,  with  gentle  voice, 
Asks  of  his  lessons  —  while  her  lifted  heart 
Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  Heaven 
To  bless  the  lad.— 

The  timid  infant  learns 
Better  to  love  its  father,  —  longer  sits 
Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 
Prints  on  his  brow  such  language,  as  the  tongue 
Hath  never  spoken.  — 

Come  thou  to  life's  feast, 

With  dove-eyed  meekness  and  bland  charity,  — 
And  thou  shall  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blast 
The  minstrel-teacher  of  the  well-tuned  soul ; 
And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drained, 
Arising  with  a  song  of  praise,  go  up 
To  the  eternal  banquet. 


NATURE'S   ROYALTY. 

"  SHOW  me  a  king,  whose  high  decree 

By  all  his  realm  is  blest, 
Whose  heaven-deputed  sway,  shall  be 

Deep  in  his  subject's  breast." 
And  lo,  a  lofty  throne  was  nigh, 

A  gorgeous  purple  robe, 
A  crowned  brow  and  eagle  eye 

That  aimed  to  rule  the  globe. 


MRS.   SIGOURNEY.  231 

Peers  at  his  bidding  came  and  went, 

Proud  hosts  to  battle  trod  ; 
Even  high-soul'd  Genius  lowly  bent, 

And  hailed  him  as  a  God. 
Wealth  spread  her  treasures  to  his  sight, 

Fame  bade  her  clarion  roll, 
But  yet  his  sceptre  seem'd  to  blight 

The  freedom  of  the  soul. 

And  deep  within  his  bosom  lay 

The  poison'd  thorn  of  care, 
Nor  ermined  pomp,  nor  regal  sway 

Forbade  its  rankling  there. 
No  fearless  truth  his  ear  addressed, 

Though  crowds  extolled  his  ways, 
A  hollow-hearted  thing  at  best 

Was  all  their  courtly  praise. 

I  saw  Suspicion  cloud  his  day, 

And  Fear  his  firmness  move, 
And  felt  there  was  no  perfect  sway 

Save  what  is  built  on  love. 
"  Show  me  a  king."  —  They  brought  a  child 

Clad  in  his  robe  of  white, 
His  golden  curls  waved  loose  and  wild, 

His  full  blue  eye  was  bright. 

A  haughty  warrior  strode  that  way, 

Whose  crest  had  never  bowed 
Beneath  his  brother  of  the  clay 

In  battle  or  in  crowd :  — 
Yet  down  before  that  babe  he  bent, 

A  captive  to  his  charms, 
And  meek  as  with  a  slave's  intent, 

Receiv'd  him  in  his  arms. 


232  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 

Beauty  was  near,  and  love's  warm  sigh 

Burst  forth  from  manhood's  breast, 
While  pride  was  kindling  in  that  eye 

Which  saw  its  power  confest :  — 
"  Sing  me  a  song,"  the  urchin  cried, 

And  from  her  lips  did  part, 
A  strain  to  kneeling  man  denied, 

Rich  music  of  the  heart. 

A  sage  austere,  for  learning  famed, 

Frown'd  with  abstracted  air : 
"  Tell  me  a  tale,"  the  boy  exclaimed, 

And  boldly  climbed  his  chair:  — 
While  he  —  (how  wondrous  was  the  change!) 

Poured  forth  in  language  free, 
Enforced  with  gestures  strong  and  strange, 

A  tale  of  Araby. 

"  I  sought  a  king."  —  And  Nature  cried 

His  royalty  revere, 
Who  conquers  beauty,  power  and  pride, 

Thus  with  a  smile  or  tear. 
The  crowned  despot's  eye  may  wake, 

His  bosom  grieve  alone, 
But  infant  Innocence  doth  make 

The  human  heart  its  throne. 


MRS.  S1GOURNEY.  233 


STANZAS. 

"  Arise  ye,  and  depart, — for  this  is  not  your  rest." 

MICAH  ii.  8,  10. 

THE  vines  are  wither'd  oh,  my  love, 

That  erst  we  taught  to  tower, 
And  in  a  mesh  of  fragrance  wove, 

Around  our  summer-bower. 

The  ivy  on  the  ancient  wall 

Doth  in  its  budding  fade  ; 
The  stream  is  dry,  — whose  gentle  fall 

A  lulling  murmur  made. 

The  tangled  weeds  have  chok'd  the  flowers  ; 

The  trees  so  lately  bright, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  vernal  hours 

Reveal  a  blackening  blight. 

There  is  a  sigh  upon  the  gale 

That  doth  the  willow  sway, 
A  murmur  from  the  blossoms  pale, 

"  Arise,  and  come  away." 

So,  when  this  life  in  clouds  shall  hide 

Its  garland  fair  and  brief, 
And  every  promise  of  its  pride 

Doth  wear  the  frosted  leaf; 

Then  may  the  undying  soul  attain 

That  heritage  sublime, 
Where  comes  no  pang  of  parting  pain, 

No  change  of  hoary  time. 
20* 


234  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


RADIANT  CLOUDS  AT  SUNSET. 

BRIGHT  Clouds  !  ye  are  gathering  one  by  one, 
Ye  are  sweeping  in  pomp  round  the  dying  sun, 
With  crimson  banner,  and  golden  pall, 
Like  a  host  to  their  chieftain's  funeral ; 
Perchance  ye  tread  to  that  hallowed  spot 
With  a  muffled  dirge,  though  we  hear  it  not. 

But,  methinks  ye  tower  with  a  lordlier  crest 

And  a  gorgeous  flush  as  he  sinks  to  rest ; 

Not  thus  in  the  day  of  his  pride  and  wrath 

Did  ye  dare  to  press  on  his  glorious  path ; 

At  his  noontide  glance  ye  have  quaked  with  fear, 

And  hasted  to  hide  in  your  misty  sphere. 

Do  you  say  he  is  dead?  —  You  exult  in  vain, 
With  your  rainbow  robe  and  your  swelling  train  : 
He  shall  rise  again  with  his  strong,  bright  ray  ; 
He  shall  reign  in  power  when  you  fade  away, — 
When  ye  darkly  cower  in  your  vapory  hall, 
Tintless,  and  naked,  and  noteless  all. 

The  Soul—  !  the  Soul !  — with  its  eye  of  fire, 
Thus,  thus  shall  it  soar  when  its  foes  expire  ; 
It  shall  spread  its  wings  o'er  the  ills  that  pained, 
The  evils  that  shadowed,  the  sins  that  stained  ; 
It  shall  dwell  where  no  rushing  cloud  hath  sway, 
And  the  pageants  of  earth  shall  have  melted  away. 


MRS.  SIGOURNEY.  235 


A  COTTAGE  SCENE. 

I  SAW  a  cradle  at  a  cottage  door, 
Where  the  fair  mother  with  her  cheerful  wheel 
Carolled  so  sweet  a  song,  that  the  young  bird, 
Which  timid  near  the  threshold  sought  for  seeds, 
Paused  on  his  lifted  foot,  and  raised  his  head, 
As  if  to  listen.     The  rejoicing  bees 
Nestled  in  throngs  amid  the  woodbine  cups, 
That  o'er  the  lattice  clustered.     A  clear  stream 
Came  leaping  from  its  sylvan  height,  and  poured 
Music  upon  the  pebbles, — and  the  winds 
Which  gently  'rnid  the  vernal  branches  played 
Their  idle  freaks,  brought  showering  blossoms  down, 
Surfeiting  earth  with  sweetness. 

Sad  I  came 

From  weary  commerce  with  the  heartless  world ; 
But  when  I  felt  upon  my  withered  cheek 
My  mother  Nature's  breath,  —  and  heard  the  trump 
Of  those  gay  insects  at  their  honied  toil, 
Shining  like  winged  jewelry, — and  drank 
The  healthful  odor  of  the  flowering  trees 
And  bright-eyed  violets ;  —  but  most  of  all, 
When  I  beheld  mild  slumbering  Innocence, 
And  on  that  young  maternal  brow  the  smile 
Of  those  affections  which  do  purify 
And  renovate  the  soul,  I  turned  me  back 
In  gladness,  and  with  added  strength  to  run 
My  weary  race  —  lifting  a  thankful  prayer 
To  Him  who  showed  me  some  bright  tints  of  heaven 
Here  on  the  earth,  that  I  might  safer  walk, 
And  firmer  combat  sin,  and  surer  rise 
From  earth  to  heaven. 


236  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


SOLITUDE. 

DEEP  Solitude  I  sought.— There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day,' 
While  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  back-grounds  'gainst  the  sky. 

Thither  I  went, 

And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world.  —  I  thought  to  he 
There  without  witness. — but  the  violet's  eye 
Lo'oked  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek. 
There  were  glad  voices,  too,  —  the  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history.  —  Up  came  the  singing  breeze 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive  every  one. —  Even  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell.  —  The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 
To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 
While  from  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Sang  to  her  nurslings.  — 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love  !  —  it  might  not  be !  — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joys,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  237 

Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness.     Even  the  desert  place 
Speaketh  thy  name.     The  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent,  and  he 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure. 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  d'ay, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  drest, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart.. 


ALICE. 

A  very  interesting"  daughter  of  the  lale  Dr.  Cogswell,  who  was 
deprived  of  the  powers  of  hearing  and  speech,  cherished  so  ardent 
an  affection  for  her  father,  that,  after  his  death,  she  said,  in  her 
strong  language  of  gesture,  that  "  her  heart  had  so  grown  to  his,  it 
could  not  be  separated."  By  the  providence  of  the  Almighty  she 
was  called  in  a  few  days  to  follow  him ;  and  from  the  abodes  of 
bliss,  where  we  trust  she  has  obtained  a  mansion,  may  we  not  im- 
agine her  as  'thus  addressing  the  objects  of  her  fondest  earthly  af- 
fections? 

SISTERS!  — there's  music  here. 

From  countless  harps  it  flows, 
Throughout  this  bright  celestial  sphere 
Nor  pause,  nor  discord  knows. 
The  seal  is  melted  from  my  ear 

By  love  divine, 
And  what  through  life  I  pined  to  hear 

Is  mine  !  Is  mine  ! 

The  warbling  of  an  ever-tuneful  choir 
And  the  full,  deep  response  of  David's  sacred  lyre. 
Did  kind  earth  hide  from  me 
Her  broken  harmony, 


238  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

That  thus  the  melodies  of  heaven  might  roll, 
And  whelm  in  deeper  tides  of  bliss,  my  rapt,  my  wondering 
soul? 

Joy !  —  I  am  mute  no  more,  — 

My  sad  and  silent  years, 
With  all  their  loneliness  are  o'er  ; 

Sweet  sisters  !  dry  your  tears : 
Listen  at  hush  of  eve  —  listen  at  dawn  of  day  — 
List  at  the  hour  of  prayer  —  can  ye  not  hear  my  lay? 
Untaught,  unchecked  it  came, 
As  light  from  chaos  beamed, 
Praising  his  everlasting  name, 
Whose  blood  from  Calvary  streamed  — 
And  still  it  swells  that  highest  strain,  the  song  of  the  re- 
deemed. 

Brother !  —  my  only  one ! 

Beloved  from  childhood's  hours, 
With  whom,  beneath  the  vernal  sun, 
I  wandered  when  our  task  was  done, 
And  gathered  early  flowers ; 

I  cannot  come  to  thee, 
Though  'twas  so  sweet  to  rest 
Upon  thy  gently-guiding  arm — thy  sympathizing  breast. 

'Tis  better  here  to  be. 
No  disappointments  shroud 
The  angel-bowers  of  joy; 
Our  knowledge  hath  no  cloud, 

Our  pleasures  no  alloy, 
The  fearful  word  —  to  part, 
Is  never  breathed  above  ; 
Heaven  hath  no  broken  heart  — 
Call  me  not  hence,  my  love. 

Oh,  mother !  —  He  is  here 
To  whom  my  soul  so  grew, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  239 

That  when  Death's  fatal  spear 
Stretched  him  upon  his  bier, 

I  fain  must  follow  too. 
His  smile  my  infant  griefs  restrained  — 

His  image  in  my  childish  dream 
And  o'er  my  young  affection's  reigned, 

With  gratitude  unuttered  and  supreme. 
But  yet,  till  these  refulgent  skies  burst  forth  in  radiant  glow, 
I  knew  not  half  the  unmeasured  debt  a  daughter's  heart 

doth  owe. 

Ask  ye,  if  still  his  heart  retains  its  ardent  glow? 
Ask  ye,  if  filial  love 
Unbodied  spirits  prove  ? 

'  Tis  but  a  little  space,  and  thou  shall  rise  to  know. 
I  bend  to  soothe  thy  woes, — 
How  near  —  thou  canst  not  see  — 
I  watch  thy  lone  repose, 

Alice  doth  comfort  thee; 
To  welcome  thee  I  wait  — blest  mother!  come  to  me. 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 

TOIL  on!  toil  on!  ye  ephemeral  train, 

Who  build  in  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main  ; 

Toil  on,  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 

With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock, 

Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave, 

And  your  arches  spring  up  through  thecrested  wav  e 

Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 

A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye'^bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone, 


240  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavements  spring 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king  ; 
The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled, 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold  ; 
The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 
And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  fitld, 
'Mid  the  blossomed  sweet?  that  the  valleys  yield; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up, 
There's  a  poison-drop  in  man's  purest  cup, 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle-breath, 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold, 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  'mid  their  halls  of  glee. 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  with  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build  !  ye  build  !  but  ye  enter  not  in; 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin, 

From  the  land  of  promise,  ye  fade  and  die, 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  wearied  eye, 

As  the  cloud-crowned  pyramids'  founders  sleep, 

Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep; 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main, 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  241 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON.* 

LONG  hast  thou  slept  unnoted.     Nature  stole 
In  her  soft  ministry  around  thy  bed, 
Spreading  her  vernal  tissue,  violet-gemmed, 
And  pearled  with  dews. 

She  bade  bright  Summer  bring 
Gifts  of  frankincense,  with  sweet  song  of  birds, 
And  Autumn  cast  his  reaper's  coronet 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  stormy  Winter  speak 
Sternly  of  man's  neglect. 

But  now  we  come 

To  do  thee  homage  — mother  of  our  chief! 
Fit  homage  —  such  as  honoreth  him  who  pays. 

Methinks  we  see  thee  —  as  in  olden  time  — 
Simple  in  garb  —  majestic  and  serene, 
Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance  —  in  truth 
Inflexible,  and  with  a  Spartan  zeal 
Repressing  vice,  and  making  folly  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman's  part  to  waste 
Life  in  inglorious  sloth  —  to  sport  a  while 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave, 
Then  fleet,  like  the  ephemeron,  away, 
Building  no  temple  in  her  children's  hearts, 
Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life 
Which  she  had  worshipped. 

For  the  might  that  clothed 
The  "  Pater  Patrise,"  for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon's  tomb  a  Mecca  shrine 
For  all  the  earth,  what  thanks  to  thee  are  due, 

*  On  laying  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument  to  her  memory. 
21 


242  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Who, 'mid  his  elements  of  being,  wrought, 
}\'e  know  not  — Heaven  can  tell. 

Rise,  sculptured  pile ! 
And  show  a  race  unborn,  who  rests  below ; 
And  say  to  mothers  what  a  holy  charge 
Is  theirs  —  with  what  a  kingly  power  their  love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  new-born  mind. 
Warn  them  to  wake  at  early  dawn  — and  sow 
Good  seed,  before  the  world  hath  sown  her  tares ; 
Nor  in  their  toil  decline  —  that  angel-bands 
May  put  the  sickle  in,  and  reap  for  God, 
And  gather  to  his  garner. 

Ye,  who  stand, 

With  thrilling  breast,  to  view  her  trophied  praise, 
Who  nobly  reared  Virginia's  godlike  chief — 
Ye,  whose  last  thought  upon  your  nightly  couch, 
Whose  Jirst  at  waking,  is  your  cradled  son, — 
What  though  no  high  ambition  prompts  to  rear 
A  second  Washington;  or  leave  your  name 
Wrought  out  in  marble  with  a  nation's  tears 
Of  deathless  gratitude  —  yet  may  you  raise 
A  monument  above  the  stars —  a  soul 
Led,  by  your  teachings  and  your  prayers,  to  God. 


POETRY. 

MORN  on  her  rosy  couch  awoke, 

Enchantment  led  the  hour. 
And  mirth  and  music  drank  the  dews 

That  freshen'd  Beauty's  flower. 
Then  from  her  bower  of  deep  delight, 

I  heaid  a  young  girl  sing, — 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  noiy  tnmg." 


MRS.  SIGOURNEY.  243 

The  Sun  in  noon-day  heat  rose  high, 

And  on,  with  heaving  breast, 
I  saw  a  weary  pilgrim  toil 

Unpitied  and  unblest. 
Yet  still  in  trembling  measures  flow'd 

Forth  from  a  broken  string,  — 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 

'Twas  night,  and  Death  the  curtains  drew, 

'Mid  agony  severe, 
While  there  a  willing  spirit  went 

Home  to  a  glorious  sphere. 
Yet  still  it  sigh'd,  even  when  was  spread 

The  waiting  Angel's  wing,  — 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 


FILIAL  CLAIMS. 

WHO  bendeth,  with  meek  eye  and  bloodless  cheek, 

Thus  o'er  the  new-born  babe?  content  to  take 

As  payment  for  all  agony  and  pain, 

Its  first  soft  kiss,  its  first  breath  on  her  brow, 

The  first  faint  pressure  of  its  tiny  hand  ? 

It  is  not  needful  that  I  speak  the  name 

Of  that  one  being  on  this  earth,  whose  love 

Doth  never  falter. 

Answer  me,  young  man, 

Thou,  who  thro'  chance  and  change  of  time  hast  trod 
Thus  far,  when  some  with  vengeful  wrath  have  mark'd 
Thy  waywardness,  or  in  thy  time  of  woe 
Deserted  thee,  or  with  a  rainbow  smile 


244  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Lur'd  and  forsook,  or  on  thine  errors  scowl'd 
With  unforgiving  memory,  —  did  she? 
Thy  Mother! 

Child !  in  whose  rejoicing  heart 
The  cradle-scene  is  fresh,  the  lulling  hymn 
Still  clearly  echoed,  when  the  blight  of  age 
Withereth  that  bosom,  where  thine  head  doth  lay, 
When  pain  shall  paralyze  the  arm  that  clasps 
Thy  form  so  tenderly,  wilt  thou  forget  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  weary,  tho'  long  years  should  ask 
The  patient  offices  of  love  to  gird 
A  broken  mind  ? 

Turn  back  the  book  of  life 

To  its  first  page.    What  deep  trace  meets  thee  there  ? 
Lines  from  a  Mother'*  pencil.    When  her  scroll 
Of  life  is  finishM  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Stamps  that  strong  seal,  which  none  but  God  can  break, 
What  should  its  last  trace  be  ? 

Thy  bending  form 

In  sleepless  love,  the  dying  couch  beside, 
Thy  tender  hand  upon  the  closing  eye, 
Thy  kiss  upon  the  lips,  thy  prayer  to  Heaven, 
The  chasten'd  rendering  of  thy  filial  trust, 
Up  to  the  white-wing'd  angel  ministry. 


WASHINGTON'S  BIRTH-DAY.* 

4 

THERE  is  a  festive  strain  within  the  walls 
Of  the  Eternal  City,  and  high  praise 
Unto  the  glorious  dead.    Beauty  doth  twine 
Her  votive  wreath,  and  Eloquence  and  Song 
In  eulogy  burst  forth.     To  whom,  O  Rome, 

*  Celebrated  at  Rome,  by  the  Americans,  February  22d,  1829. 


MRS.    S1GOURNEY.  245 

Mid  all  thy  heroes,  all  thy  demi-gods, 
Thy  purple-rob'd  and  mitred  ones,  to  whom 
Riseth  this  homage  ?     But  she  wav'd  her  hand. 
And  pointed  me  in  silence,  as  of  scorn, 
Unto  a  stranger-band.     Yes,  there  they  stood, 
The  children  of  that  Western  Clime  which  slept 
In  embryo  darkness,  when  tiara'd  Rome 
In  all  the  peevish  plenitude  of  power 
Call'd  Earth  her  footstool.     There  they  stood  serene, 
True  sons  of  that  fair  realm  which  needeth  not 
The  faded  pomp  of  royal  pageantry 
To  trick  her  banner.     Wheresoe'er  they  roam, 
Whether  'mid  Andes'  canopy  of  cloud, 
Or  the  sunk  cells  of  groping  Labrador, 
Or  the  broad  seas,  or  the  bright  tropic-isles 
Where  Nature  in  her  noon-day  faintness  holds 
A  long  siesta, — still  their  hearts  enshrine 
Liberty  as  a  God.     There,  'neath  the  shade 
Of  the  Colliseum  vaulting  up  to  Heaven, 
The  time-spar'd  arch,  the  mighty  Basilic, 
Palace,  and  pantheon,  and  monument, 
Where  throng  a  wondering  world  in  pilgrimage, 
They  bow  no  knee  to  Cesar,  but  compel 
The  kingly  Tiber  to  pronounce  the  name 
Of  their  own  Washington.     Sublime  they  pour 
Warm  Memory's  incense  to  their  Country's  Sire, 
He,  who  in  pliant  infancy  was  train'd 
By  Spartan  nurture  first  to  rule  himself ] 
And  then  a  young,  embattled  host  to  lead 
Through  toil  and  terror,  to  a  glorious  seat 
Among  the  nations.     Then  when  every  eye 
Of  every  clime  was  bent  on  him  with  awe 
Like  adoration,  from  his  breast  he  rent 
The  adhesive  panoply  of  power,  retir'd 
From  the  loud  paeans  of  a  world,  to  sleep 
21* 


246  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Uncrown'd,  uncoronetted,  'mid  the  soil 
His  hands  had  till'd.     Henceforth  let  none  decry 
The  majesty  of  virtue,  sirfce  she  stands 
Simply  on  the  high  places  of  the  earth, 
Her  open  forehead  to  the  scanning  stars, 
And  the  pure-hearted  worship  her,  while  Pride 
And  tyrant  Power  and  laurell'd  Victory 
Do  give  their  sculptur'd  trophies  to  the  owl 
And  noisome  bat,  and  to  the  shades  pass  on 
With  such  memorial  as  ne'er  wrung  a  tear. 


THE  BRIDE. 

I  CAME,  —  but  she  was  gone. 

In  her  fair  home, 

There  lay  her  lute,  just  as  she  touch'd  it  last, 
At  summer  twilight,  when  the  woodbine  cups 
Fill'd  with  pure  fragrance.     On  her  favorite  seat 
Lay  the  still  open  work-box,  and  that  book 
Which  last  she  read,  its  pencil'd  margin  mark'd 
By  an  ill-quoted  passage,  —  trac'd,  perchance, 
With  hand  unconscious,  while  her  lover  spake 
That  dialect,  which  brings  forgetfulness 
Of  all  beside.     It  was  the  cherish'd  home, 
Where  from  her  childhood  she  had  been  the  star 
Of  hope  and  joy. 

I  came,  — and  she  was  gone. 
Yet  I  had  seen  her  from  the  altar  led, 
With  silvery  veil  but  slightly  swept  aside, 
The  fresh,  young  rose-bud  deepening  in  her  cheek, 
And  on  her  brow  the  sweet  and  solemn  thought 
Of  one  who  gives  a  priceless  gift  away. 


MRS.   SIGOURNEY.  247 

And  there  was  silence  mid  the  gather'd  throng. 
The  stranger,  and  the  hard  of  heart,  did  draw 
Their  breath  supprest,  to  see  the  mother's  lip 
Turn  ghastly  pale,  and  the  majestic  sire 
Shrink  as  with  smother'd  sorrow,  when  he  gave 
His  darling  to  an  untried  guardianship, 
And  to  a  far  off  clime. 

Haply  his  thought 

Travers'd  the  grass-grown  prairies,  and  the  shore 
Of  the  cold  lakes  ;  or  those  o'erhanging  cliflfs 
And  pathless  mountain  tops,  that  rose  to  bar 
Her  log-rear'd  mansion  from  the  anxious  eye 
Of  kindred  and  of  friend.     Even  triflers  felt 
How  strong  and  beautiful  is  woman's  love, 
That,  taking  in  its  hand  its  thornless  joys, 
The  tenderest  melodies  of  tuneful  years, 
Yea!  and  its  own  life  also, — lays  them  all, 
Meek  and  unblenching,  on  a  mortal's  breast 
Reserving  nought,  save  that  unspoken  hope 
Which  hath  its  root  in  God. 

Mock  not  with  mirth, 

A  scene  like  this,  ye  laughter-loving  ones ;  — 
The  licens'd  jester's  lip,  the  dancer's  heel  — 
What  do  they  here  ? 

Joy,  serious  and  sublime, 
Such  as  doth  nerve  the  energies  of  prayer, 
Should  swell  the  bosom,  when  a  maiden's  hand, 
Fill'd  with  life's  dewy  flow'rets,  girdeth  on 
That  harness,  which  the  ministry  of  Death 
Alone  unlooseth,  but  whose  fearful  power 
May  stamp  the  sentence  of  Eternity. 


248  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


INDIAN  NAMES, 

•'  How  can  the  red  man  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  of  our  states 
and  territories,  bays,  lakes  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamped  by 
names  of  their  giving  1 " 

YE  say  they  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave; 
That  'raid  the  forest  where  they  roamed 

There  rings  no  hunter  shout ; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'  Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  Ocean's  sure  is  curled, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world. 
Where  red  Missouri  brinircth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  west. 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  cone-like  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  fled  away  like  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn  gale ; 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore; 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 


MRS.  SIGOURNEY.  249 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown  ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves. 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachuset  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart ; 
Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust, 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  cherub  brow, 
And  dashed  it  out. — There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip ;  —  he  touched  the  veins  with  ice 
And  the  rose  faded. — Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wistful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  Innocence 
Alone  can  wear.  —  With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  fringes  of  their  curtained  lids 
Forever. — There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears. — The  spoiler  set 
His  seal  of  silence. — But  there  beamed  a  smile 
So  fixed  and  holy  from  that  marble  brow, — 
Death  gazed  and  left  it  there  ; —  he  dared  not  steal 
The  signet  ring  of  heaven. 


250  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

NATURE  doth  mourn  for  thee.     There  is  no  need 

For  Man  to  strike  his  plaintive  lyre,  and  fail, — 

As  fail  he  must,  —  if  he  attempt  thy  praise. 

The  little  plant  that  never  sang  before, 

Save  one  sad  requiem  when  its  blossoms  fell, 

Sighs  deeply,  through  its  drooping  leaves,  for  thee 

As  for  a  florist  fallen.     The  ivy  wreath'd 

Round  the  grey  turrets  of  a  buried  race, 

And  the  tall  palm,  that  like  a  prince  doth  rear 

Its  diadem  'neath  Asia's  burning  sky, 

With  their  dim  legends  blend  thy  glorious  name. 

Thy  music,  like  baptismal  dew,  did  make 

Whate'er  it  touched,  most  holy.     The  pure  shell, 

Laying  its  pearly  lip  on  ocean's  floor, 

The  cloister'd  chambers  where  the  sea-gods  sleep, 

And  the  unfathom'd  melancholy  main, 

Lament  for  thee,  through  all  the  sounding  deeps. 

—  Hark !  from  snow-breasted  Himmaleh,  to  where 

Snowden  doth  weave  his  coronet  of  cloud, 

From  the  scath'd  pine-tree,  near  the  red  man's  hut, 

To  where  the  everlasting  banian  builds 

Its  vast  columnar  temple,  comes  a  moan 

For  thee,  whose  ritual  made  each  rocky  height 

An  altar,  and  each  cottage  home  the  haunt 

Of  Poesy.    Yea,  thou  didst  find  the  link 

That  joins  mute  nature  to  ethereal  mind, 

And  made  that  link  a  melody. 

The  couch 

Of  thy  last  sleep  was  in  the  native  clime 
Of  song  and  eloquence,  and  ardent  soul,— 
Spot  fitly  chosen  for  thee.    Perchance,  that  isle, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY.  251 

So  lov'd  of  favoring  skies,  yet  bann'd  by  fate, 
Might  shadow  forth  thine  own  unspoken  lot. 
For  at  thy  heart  the  ever-pointed  thorn 
Did  gird  itself,  until  thy  life-stream  oozed 
In  gushes  of  such  deep  and  thrilling  song, 
That  angels,  poising  on  some  silver  cloud, 
Might  linger  'mid  the  errands  of  the  skies, 
And  listen,  all  unblam'd. 

How  tenderly 

Doth  Nature  draw  her  curtain  round  thy  rest, 
And  like  a  nurse,  with  finger  on  her  lip 
Watch  lest  some  step  disturb  thee,  —  striving  still 
From  other  hands,  thy  sacred  harp  to  guard.  — 
Waits  she  thy  waking,  as  some  Mother  waits 
The  babe,  whose  gentle  spirit  sleep  hath  stolen, 
And  laid  it  dreaming  on  the  lap  of  Heaven? 
—  We  say  not  thou  art  dead.     We  dare  not.    No. 
For  every  mountain  stream  and  shadowy  dell 
Where  thy  rich  harpings  linger,  would  hurl  back 
The  falsehood  on  our  souls.     Thou  speak'st  alike 
The  simple  language  of  the  freckled  flower, 
And  of  the  glorious  stars.     God  taught  it  thee.^ 
And  from  thy  living  intercourse  with  man, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  away,  until  this  earth 
Drops  her  last  gem  into  the  doom's-day  flame. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  seat  with  that  blest  choir 
Whose  hymns  thy  tuneful  spirit  learn'd  so  well 
From  this  suhluner  terrace,  and  so  long 
Interpreted.     Therefore,  we  will  not  say 
Farewell  to  thee  :  —  for  every  unborn  age 
Shall  mix  thee  with  its  household  charities  ; 
The  sage  shall  meet  thee  with  his  benison, 
And  woman  shrine  thee  as  a  vestal  flame 
In  all  the  temples  of  her  sanctity,  — 
And  the  young  child  shall  take  thee  by  the  hand, 
And  travel  with  a  surer  step  to  heaven. 


252  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


"BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD." 

COME,  gather  to  this  burial-place,  ye  gay  ! 
Ye,  of  the  sparkling  eye,  and  frolic  brow, 
I  bid  ye  hither.     She,  who  makes  her  bed 
This  day,  'neath  yon  damp  turf,  with  spring-flowers  sown, 
Was  one  of  you.     Time  had  not  laid  his  hand 
On  tress  or  feature,  stamping  the  dread  lines, 
Of  chill  decay,  till  Death  had  nought  to  do, 
Save  that  slight  office  which  the  passing  gale 
Doth  to  the  wasted  taper.    No,  her  cheek 
Shamed  the  young  rose-bud ;  in  her  eye  was  light 
By  gladness  kindled ;  in  her  footsteps  grace ; 
Song  on  her  lips  ;  affections  in  her  breast, 
Like  soft  doves  nesting.    Yet,  from  all  she  turned. 
All  she  forsook,  unclasping  her  warm  hand 
From  Friendship's  ardent  pressure,  with  such  smile 
As  if  she  were  the  gainer.     To  lie  down 
In  this  dark  pit  she  coraeth,  dust  to  dust, 
Ashes  to  ashes,  till  the  glorious  morn 
Of  resurrection.    Wondering  do  you  ask  — 
Where  is  her  blessedness !    Go  home,  ye  gay, 
Go  to  your  secret  chambers,  and  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  God.     Urge  your  request  like  him 
Who  on  the  slight  raft,  'mid  the  ocean's  foam 
Toileth  for  life.     And  when  ye  win  a  hope, 
That  the  world  gives  not,  and  a  faith  divine, 
Ye  will  no  longer  marvel  how  the  friend 
So  beautiful,  so  loved,  so  lured  by  all 
The  pageantry  on  earth,  could  meekly  find 
A  blessedness  in  death. 


HANNAH   F.  GOULD. 


THE  great  popularity  of  Miss  Gould  we  consider  a  most 
encouraging  omen  for  the  lovers  of  genuine  poetry,  of  that 
which  is  true  in  thought  and  natural  in  description.  She 
charms  by  the  rare  merit  of  imparting  interest  to  small 
things  and  common  occurrences.  These  make  up  far  the 
greater  part  of  life's  reality,  and,  if  truth  be  the  essence  of 
poetry,  they  must  be  poetical.  Unfortunately,  but  few 
poets  have  had  the  power  or  the  inclination  to  invest  the 
actual  world  with  the  beauty  and  attractiveness  which  has 
been  lavished  on  ideal  and  false  creations  of  fancy  ;  and 
hence  it  is  that  their  labors  have  been  accounted  idle,  and 
their  profession  degraded.  Passion  has  too  often  usurped 
the  place  of  reason,  and  a  selfish  sensitiveness  been  fos- 
tered, instead  of  that  healthful  sentiment  of  complacency 
in  the  happiness  of  others,  which  all  high  exercise  of  the 
mental  faculties  should  exalt  and  encourage.  It  is  this  en- 
larging and  elevating  the  affections,  which  improves  the 
heart  and  purifies  the  taste.  And  this  is  one  important 
office  of  true  poetry — such  poetry  as  Miss  Gould  has  written. 

She  also  possesses  great  delicacy  and  scope  of  imagina- 
tion; she  gathers  around  her  simple  themes  imagery  of  pe- 
culiar beauty  and  uncommon  association  —  and  yet  this 
imagery  is  always  appropriate.  Then  she  has  a  very  felici- 
tous command  of  language,  and  the  skill  of  making  the 
22 


254  THE   LADIES'    WREATH 

most  uncouth  words  "lie  smooth  in  rhyme,"  which  the 
greatest  poet  of  the  age  might  envy.  And  she,  not  seldom, 
displays  humorous  turns  of  thought,  and  a  sportive  raillery 
which  is  very  amusing. 

Wit  is  a  much  more  rare  quality  than  wisdom  in  female 
writers.  We  shall  not  here  enter  into  the  inquiry  why  it 
is  that  women,  who  are,  proverbially,  quick  in  perception, 
and  who  are  often  accused  of  delighting  in  repartee  and 
scandal,  should  nevertheless,  when  submitting  their  senti- 
ments to  the  public,  almost  scrupulously  avoid  ridicule  and 
satire,  even  when  the  subjects  treated  of  seemed  to  justify 
or  demand  these  forms  of  expression.  But  such  is  the  fact 
— and  hence  Miss  Gould's  sprightly  wit  has  the  advan- 
tage of  appearing  more  original.  She,  however,  uses  it 
with  great  delicacy,  and  always  to  teach  or  enforce  some 
lesson  which  would  not  disparage  "  dirine  Philosophy,"  to 
inculcate.  —  In  truth,  the  great  power  of  her  poetry  is  its 
moral  application.  This  hallows  every  object  she  looks 
upon,  and  ennobles  every  incident  she  celebrates.  She 
takes  lowly  and  homely  themes,  but  she  turns  them  to  the 
light  of  heaven,  and  they  are  beautified,  and  refined,  and 
elevated.  Slu-  brings  to  her  God  the  rich  treasures  of 
her  intellect,  and  the  warm  feelings  of  her  heart.  Every- 
where and  in  every  thing  she  sees  and  feels  His  presence; 
and  her  song  ri>c-  in  those  "spiritual  breathings,"  which 
lift  the  hearts  of  her  readers,  to  unite  with  her,  in  praise 
to  the  Lord. 

The  mania  for  melancholy  and  despairing  poetry,  which 
the  Byronia  era  introduced,  never  found  any  favor  in  the 
clear,  calm,  sensible  mind  of  our  poetess.  Her  philosophy 
is  as  practical  and  contented  as  her  piety  is  ardent.  —  Her 
motto  seems  to  have  been 

"  The  Muse  should  gladden  the  seasons, 
Should  strengthen  the  heart  in  pain"  — 

and  like  her  own  "  Ground  Laurel "  she  adds  cheerfulness 
to  every  scene,  however  sequestered  or  lonely,  which  her 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD.  t       255 

fancy  pictures.     Truly  such  a  genius  is  a  blessing  to  the 
world. 

Miss  Gould  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts,  and  now  re- 
sides atNewburyport,  housekeeper,  nurse  and  friend  of  her 
aged  father,  who  was  a  veteran  of  the  Revolution.  She 
did  not  appear  before  the  public  as  a  writer  till  her  powers 
of  mind  were  matured,  and  she  has,  therefore,  few  juvenile 
errors  of  fancy  to  regret.  —  Her  poems  were  first  published 
in  the  periodicals  and  annuals,  from  whence  she  has  col- 
lected and  issued  them  in  two  volumes.  This  more  per- 
manent form  was  demanded  by  their  popularity  —  a  strange 
thing  for  poetry,  the  booksellers  say.  Her  poems  will  be 
popular  while  truth  has  friends  and  nature  admirers,  and 
while  children  are  readers.  And  what  praise  is  sweeter 
to  a  pure,  good  mind  than  the  praise  of  childhood,  in  which 
the  heart  is  always  given  with  the  lips  ? 


THE  ZEPHYR'S  SOLILOQ,UY. 

THOUGH  from  whence  I  came,  or  whither  I  go, 
My  end  or  my  nature  I  ne'er  may  know, 
I  will  number  o'er  to  myself  a  few 
Of  the  countless  things  I  am  born  to  do. 
I  flit  in  the  days  of  the  joyous  Spring, 
Through  field  and  forest,  and  freight  my  wing 
With  the  spice  of  the  buds,  which  I  haste  to  bear 
Where  I  know  that  man  will  inhale  the  air. 
And  while  I  hover  o'er  beauty's  lip, 
I  part  her  locks  with  my  pinion's  tip ; 
Or  brighten  her  cheek  with  my  fond  caress, 
And  breathe  in  the  folds  of  her  lightsome  dress. 
I  love  to  sport  with  the  silken  curl 
On  the  lily  neck  of  the  laughing  girl ; 


256  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

To  dry  the  tear  of  the  weeping  boy, 

Who 's  breaking  his  heart  for  a  broken  toy ; 

To  fan  the  heat  of  his  brow  away, 

And  over  his  mother's  harp-strings  play, 

Till,  his  grief  forgotten,  he  looks  around, 

For  the  secret  hand  that  has  waked  the  sound. 

I  love,  when  the  warrior  mails  his  breast, 

To  toss  the  head  of  his  snow-white  crest : 

To  take  the  adieu  that  he  turns  to  leave, 

And  the  sigh  that  his  lady  retires  to  heave ! 

When  the  sultry  sun,  of  a  summer's  day, 

Each  sparkling  dew-drop  has  dried  away, 

And  the  flowers  are  left  to  thirst  to  death, 

I  love  to  come  and  afford  them  breath ; 

And,  under  each  languid  drooping  thing, 

To  place  my  balmy  and  cooling  wing. 

When  the  bright  fresh  showers  have  just  gone  by, 

And  the  rainbow  stands  in  the  evening  sky, 

Oh !  then  is  the  merriest  time  for  me, 

And  I  and  my  race  have  a  jubilee ! 

We  fly  to  the  gardens,  and  shake  the  drops 

From  the  bending  boughs,  and  the  floweret  tops ; 

And  revel  unseen  in  the  calm  star-light, 

Or  dance  on  the  moon-beams  the  live-long  night. 

These,  ah  !  these  are  my  hours  of  gladness ! 

But,  I  have  my  days  and  my  nights  of  sadness! 

When  I  go  to  the  cheek  where  I  kissed  the  rose, 
And  't  is  turning  as  white  as  the  mountain  snows; 
While  the  eye  of  beauty  must  soon  be  hid 
Forever  beneath  its  sinking  lid  — 
Oh !  I'd  give  my  whole  self  but  to  spare  that  gasp, 
And  save  her  a  moment  from  deal's  cold  grasp! 
And  when  she  is  borne  to  repose  alone 
'Neath  the  fresh  cut  sod,  and  the  church-yard  stone, 
I  keep  close  by  her  and  do  my  best 
To  lift  the  dark  pall  from  the  sleeper's  breast ; 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD.  257 

And  linger  behind  with  the  beautiful  clay, 

When  friends  and  kindred  have  gone  their  way  ! 

When  the  babe  whose  dimples  I  used  to  fan, 

I  see  completing  its  earthly  span, 

I  long,  with  a  spirit  so  pure,  to  go 

From  the  scene  of  sorrow  and  tears  below, 

Till  I  rise  so  high  I  can  catch  the  song 

Of  welcome  that  bursts  from  the  angel  throng, 

As  it  enters  its  rest  —  but  alas !  alas ! 

I  am  only  from  death  to  death  to  pass. 

I  hasten  away  over  mountain  and  flood. 

And  find  1  'm  alone  on  a  field  of  blood. 

The  soldier  is  there  —  but  he  breathes  no  more ; 

And  there  is  the  plume,  but 't  is  stained  with  gore  : 

I  flutter  and  strive  in  vain,  to  place 

The  end  of  his  scarf  on  his  marble  face; 

And  find  not  even  a  sigh,  to  take       > 

To  her,  whose  heart  is  so  soon  to  break ! 

I  fly  to  the  flowers  I  loved  so  much  — 

They  are  pale,  and  drop  at  my  slightest  touch. 

The  earth  is  in  ruins  !  —  I  turn  to  the  sky  — 

It  frowns  !  —  and  what  can  I  do,  but  die  ? 


THE  LITTLE  FOOT. 

My  boy,  as  gently  on  my  breast, 
From  infant  sport  thou  sink'st  to  rest, 
And  on  my  hand  I  feel  thee  put, 
In  playful  dreams,  thy  little  foot, 
The  thrilling  touch  sets  every  string 
Of  my  full  heart  a  quivering ; 
For,  ah !  I  think,  what  chart  can  show, 
The  ways  through  which  this  foot  may  go? 
22* 


THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Its  print  will  be,  in  childhood's  hours, 
Traced  in  the  garden,  round  the  flowers; 
But  youth  will  bid  it  leap  the  rills  — 
Bathe  in  the  dews  of  distant  hills  — 
Roam  o'er  the  vales,  and  venture  out 
When  riper  years  would  pause  and  doubt; 
Nor  brave  the  pass,  nor  try  the  brink 
Where  youth's  unguarded  foot  may  sink. 

But  what,  when  manhood  tints  thy  cheek, 
Will  be  the  ways  this  foot  may  seek? 
Is  it  to  lightly  pace  the  deck? 
To,  helpless,  slip  from  off  the  wreck? 
Or  wander  o'er  a  foreign  shore, 
Returning  to  thy  home  no  more, 
Until  the  bosom,  now  thy  pillow, 
Is  low  and  cold  beneath  the  willow  ? 

Or,  is  it  for  the  battle  plain  ? 

Beside  the  slayer  and  the  slain  — 

Till  there  its  final  step  be  taken? 

There,  sleep  thine  eye,  no  more  to  waken  ? 

Is  it  to  glory,  or  to  shame  — 

To  sully,  or  to  gild  thy  name — 

Is  it  to  happiness  or  wo, 

This  little  foot  is  made  to  go  ? 

But  wheresoe'er  its  lines  may  fall, 
Whether  in  cottage,  or  in  hall; 
O,  may  it  ever  shun  the  ground 
Where'er  His  foot  had  not  been  found, 
Who  on  his  path  below,  hath  shed 
A  living  light,  that  all  may  tread 
Upon  his  earthly  steps  ;  and  none 
E'er  dash  the  foot  against  a  stone. ! 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD.  259 

Yet  if  thy  way  is  mark'd  by  fate, 
As  guilty,  dark  and  desolate,  — 
If  thou  must  float,  by  vice  and  crime, 
A  wreck,  upon  the  stream  of  time  — 
Oh !  rather  than  behold  that  day, 
I'd  know  this  foot,  in  lightsome  play, 
Would  bound  with  guiltless,  infant  glee 
Upon  the  sod  that  shelters  me. 


THE  FROST. 

THE  Frost  looked  forth  one  still,  clear  night, 
And  whispered,  "  Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight  j 
So  through  the  valley  and  over  the  height 

In  silence  I'll  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering  train, 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain, 
Who  make  so  much  bustle  and  noise  in  vain, 

But  I'll  be  as  busy  as  they  !  " 

Then  he  flew  to  the  mountain,  and  powdered  its  crest; 
He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  drest 
In  diamond  beads  —  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivering  lake,  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear, 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

« 

He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane,  like  a  fairy,  crept ; 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stepped, 
By  the  light  of  the  morn  were  seen 


260  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Most  beautiful  things  ;  there  were  flowers  and  trees ; 
There  were  bevies  of  birds  and  swarms  of  bees ; 
There  were  cities  with  temples  and  towers ;  and  these 
All  pictured  in  silver  sheen  ! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair  — 
He  peeped  in  the  cupboard,  and  rinding  there, 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare  — 

"Now,  just  to  set  them  a  thinking, 
I'll  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he, 
"  This  costly  pitcher  I'll  burst  in  three  ; 
And  the  glass  of  water  they've  left  for  me 

Shall  '  tchick ! '  to  tell  them  I'm  drinking ! " 


THE  THRICE  CLOSED  EYE. 

THE  eye  was  closed,  and  calm  the  breast  — 
'Twas  sleep  —  the  weary  was  at  rest, 
While  fancy  on  her  rainbow  wings, 
Ranged  through  a  world  of  new  made  things, 
'Mid  regions  pure  and  visions  bright, 
Formed  but  to  mock  the  waking  sight. 
For  ah  !  how  light  does  slumber  sit 
On  sorrow's  brow  —  how  quickly  flit 
From  her  pale  throne,  when  envious  care 
Comes  robed  in  clouds,  and  frowning,  there ! 

Again  —  I  saw  the  falling  lid, 

And  from  his  sight  the  world  was  hid : 

The  lip  was  moved  — the  knee  was  bent  — 

The  heavy-laden  spirit  went, 

Bearing  her  burden  from  the  dust 

Up  to  her  only  rock  of  trust ; 


HANNAH   F.    GOULD.  261 

And,  childlike,  on  her  Father's  breast 
Cast  off  the  load,  and  found  her  rest ! 
And  this  was  prayer  —  'twas  faith  and  love 
Communing  with  a  God  above  ! 

At  length  that  eye  was  locked  —  the  key 

Had  opened  heaven  —  'twas  Death!  —  'twas  he 

Had  sweetly  quelled  the  mortal  strife, 

And  to  the  saint,  the  gates  of  life 

Unfolded.  —  On  the  sleeper's  brow 

Lay  the  smooth  seal  of  quiet,  now, 

Which  none  could  break.  —  The  soul  that  here 

Dwelt  with  eternal  things  so  near, 

Had  burst  her  bonds,  to  soar  on  high, 

And  left  to  earth  the  thrice-closed  eye  ! 


WORSHIP  BY  THE  ROSE-TREE. 

AUTHOR  of  beauty,  Spirit  of  Power  — 

Thou,  who  didst  will  that  the  Rose  should  be, 
Here  is  the  place,  and  this  is  the  hour 

To  feel  thy  presence  and  bow  to  thee ! 
Bright  is  the  world  with  the  sun's  first  rays ; 

Clear  is  the  dew,  on  the  soft,  green  sod ; 
The  Rose-Tree  blooms,  while  the  birds  sing  praise, 

And  earth  gives  glory  to  nature's  God. 

Under  this  beautiful  work  of  thine, 
The  flowery  boughs,  that  are  bending  o'er 

The  glistening  turf,  to  jhy  will  divine, 
I  kneel,  and  its  Maker  and  mine  adore. 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Thou  art  around  us.     Thy  robe  of  light 
Touches  the  gracefully  waving  tree, 

Turning  to  jewels  the  tears  of  night, 
And  making  the  buds  unfold  to  thee. 

Traced  is  thy  name  in  delicate  lines 

On  flower  and  leaf,  as  they  dress  the  stem. 
Thy  care  is  seen,  and  thy  wisdom  shines 

In  even  the  thorn,  that  is  guarding  them. 
Now,  while  the  Rose,  that  has  burst  her  cup, 

Opens  her  heart,  and  freely  throws 
To  me  her  odors,  I  offer  up 

Thanks  to  the  Being,  who  made  the  Rose  ! 


THE  WIDOW'S  LULLABY. 

AH  !  slumber  on,  my  darling  boy, 
Nor  send  the  blissful  dream  away, 

Which  makes  the  smile  of  conscious  joy 
Across  thy  beauteous  features  play. 

Thou  think'st,  perhaps,  thy  sire  is  here, 
And  clasps  thee  in  a  fond  embrace ; 

Thou  know'st  not  'tis  thy  mother's  tear, 
So  warm  upon  thy  dimpled  face  ! 

Thou  hast  not  learned  how  still  and  cold, 
The  arms  where  thou  believ'st  thou  art ; 

Nor  dost  thou  know  that  mine  infold 
An  orphan  near  a  widow's  heart ! 

And,  should'st  thou  at  this  moment  wake, 
I  know  what  name  thou  'dst  lisp  the  first; 

To  hear  it  called  in  vain,  would  make 
This  aching,  swelling  heart  to  burst! 


H  ANNAH  F.  GOULD.  263 


THE  EMPTY  BIRD'S  NEST. 

AND  thou,  my  sad,  little,  lonely  nest, 
Has  oft  been  sought  as  the  peaceful  rest 
Of  a  weary  wing  and  a  guileless  breast ! 

But  where  is  thy  builder  now? 
And  what  has  become  of  the  helpless  brood, 
For  which  the  mother  with  daily  food, 
Came  flitting  so  light,  through  the  spicy  wood, 

To  her  home  on  the  waving  bough? 

The  fowler,  perhaps,  has  hurled  the  dart, 
Which  the  parent  bird  has  received  in  her  heart  j 
And  her  tender  orphans  are  scattered  apart, 

So  wide,  they  never  again 
In  thy  warm,  soft  cell  of  love  can  meet; 
And  thou  hast  been  filled  with  the  snow  and  the  sleet, 
By  the  hail  and  the  winds  have  thy  sides  been  beat, 

And  drenched  by  the  pitiless  rain. 

Though  great  was  the  toil  which  thy  building  cost, 
With  thy  fibres  so  neatly  coiled  and  crossed, 
And  thy  lining  of  down,  thou  art  lorn  and  lost, 

A  ruin  beyond  repair ! 
So  I'll  take  thee  down,  as  I  would  not  see 
Such  a  sorrowful  sight  on  the  gay  green  tree ; 
And  when  I  have  torn  thee,  thy  parts  shall  be, 

Like  thy  tenants,  dispersed  in  air. 

Thou  hast  made  me  to  think  of  each  heart-woven  tie  ; 
Of  the  child's  first  home,  and  of  her,  whose  eye 
Watch'd  fondly  o'er  those,  who  were  rear'd  to  die 
Where  the  grave  of  a  distant  shore 


264  THE   LADIES     WREATH 

Received  to  its  bosom  the  stranger's  clay ; 
For  when,  as  thy  birds,  they  had  passed  away 
'T  was  not  to  return,  and  the  mother  and  they 
In  time  were  to  meet  no  more ! 


THE  PROSTRATE  PINK. 

ALAS  !  alas !  a  silly  Pink, 

To  climb  so  fast,  and  never  think 

How  feeble  was  my  trust ! 
I  sought  a  high  and  airy  throne; 
Aspired  too  far  to  stand  alone  j 
And  now,  in  lowliness,  must  own 

My  kindred  with  the  dust! 

O,  would  my  stem  had  snapt  in  twain, 
And  saved  me  from  the  lingering  pain 

Of  being  thus  abased! 
'T  is  worse  than  death  to  lie  so  low, 
While  all  the  laughing  flowers  must  know, 
Ambition  caused  my  overthrow, 

And  brought  me  here  disgraced  I 

My  native  spot  is  far  behind  ! 
Nor  can  I  turn  and  hope  to  find 

Again  my  parent  root, 
Where,  fain  my  blushing  head  I'd  screen 
Among  the  leaves  so  thick  and  green, 
Whence  I  a  timid  bud  was  seen 

In  infancy  to  shoot. 

My  beauteous  form  and  hue,  so  bright, 
I  thought  could  tempest,  hail  and  blight 
And  insect's  touch  defy. 


HANNAH  F.   GOULD.  265 

I  grew  in  boldness  —  meekness  fled ; 
I  burst  my  cup,  my  odors  shed 
With  lavish  haste ;  my  petals  spread 
And  courted  every  eye. 

I  little  knew  how  great  the  fault 
Myself  to  flatter  and  exalt. 

Until  I  found,  too  late, 
My  head  grew  giddy  with  the  height ; 
The  sunbeam  seemed  a  whirling  light; 
I  lost  my  balance —  lost  my  sight; 

And  here  I  met  my  fate. 

My  sister  flowers,  take  heed !  take  heed ! 
Your  loveliness  will  ever  need 

Protection  from  the  blast. 
Be  cautious  what  your  beauties  court, 
Whereon  you  venture,  how  you  sport : 
And  if  a  straw  is  your  support, 

See  where  you  may  be  cast. 

Your  charms  are  highest  half-concealed ; 
Your  sweets  are  dearest  when  revealed 

With  modesty  and  fear; 
And  she,  who  quits  the  leafy  shade 
That  nature  for  her  shelter  made, 
May  pine  and  languish,  moan  and  fade, 

Like  her  who  sorrows  here. 

23 


•266  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  MOON  UPON  THE  SPIRE. 

THE  full-orb'd  moon  has  reached  no  higher 
Than  yon  old  church's  mossy  spire, 
And  seems,  as  gliding  up  the  air, 
She  saw  the  fane,  and,  pausing  there, 
Would  worship,  in  the  tranquil  night, 
The  Prince  of  peace  —  the  Source  of  light, 
Where  man,  for  God,  prepared  the  place, 
And  God,  to  man,  unveils  his  face. 

Her  tribute  all  around  is  seen  -  - 
She  bends,  and  worships  like  a  queen ! 
Her  robe  of  light,  and  beaming  crown 
In  silence  she  is  casting  down ; 
And,  as  a  creature  of  the  earth, 
She  feels  her  lowliness  of  birth  — 
Her  weakness  and  inconstancy 
Before  unchanging  Purity. 

Pale  traveller  on  thy  lonely  way, 
'Tis  well  thine  honors  thus  to  pay  — 
To  reverence  that  ancient  pile ; 
And  spread  thy  silver  o'er  the  aisle, 
Which  many  a  pious  foot  hath  trod, 
That  now  is  dust  beneath  the  sod  — 
Where  many  a  sacred  tear  was  wept, 
From  eyes  that  long  in  death  have  slept ! 

The  temple's  builders,  where  are  they  ? 
The  worshippers  ?  —  all  past  away ; 
Who  came  the  first  to  offer  there 
The  song  of  praise,  the  heart  of  prayer! 


HANNAH  F.   GOULD.  267 

Man's  generation  passes  soon  — 
It  wanes  and  changes  like  the  moon ! 
He  rears  the  perishable  wall  — 
But  ere  it  crumble,  he  must  fall ! 

And  does  he  fall  to  rise  no  more  ? 
Hath  he  no  part  to  triumph  o'er 
The  pallid  king  ?  —  no  spark  to  save 
From  darkness,  ashes  and  the  grave  ? 
Thou  holy  place  j  the  answer  wrought 
In  thy  firm  walls  forbids  the  thought ! 
The  spirit  that  establish'd  thee 
Nor  death  nor  darkness  e'er  shall  see ! 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

I  WONDER  what  they  have  done  with  the  pine, 
Where  the  red-breast  came  to  sing  — 

With  the  maple  too,  where  the  wandering  vine 
So  wildly  used  to  fling 

Its  loaded  arms  from  bough  to  bough  j 

And  if  they  gather  the  grapes  there  now. 

I  should  like  to  know  if  they've  kill'd  the  bee, 

And  carried  away  the  hive ; 
If  they've  broken  the  heart  of  my  chestnut-tree, 

Or  left  it  to  still  survive, 
And  its  laughing  burs  are  showering  down 
Their  loosened  treasures  of  shining  brown. 

And  there  was  a  beautiful  pond,  that  stood 
Like  an  ample  azure  vase  j 


268  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

Or  a  mirror  embosom'd  in  wild  green  wood, 

For  the  sun  to  see  his  face.  — 
Have  they  torn  up  its  lilies  to  open  a  sluice 
And  let  that  peaceful  prisoner  loose  ? 

Perhaps  they  hare  ruin'd  the  ancient  oak 

That  gave  me  its  ample  shade  ; 
And  its  own  dead  root  in  its  bed  is  broke 

By  the  plough  from  its  branches  made. 
Nor  am  I  sure  I  could  find  the  spot 
Where  I  had  my  bower  and  my  mossy  grot. 

And  shall  I  go  back  to  my  first  loved  home 

To  find  how  all  is  changed, 
Alone  o'er  those  altered  scenes  to  roam, 

From  my  early  self  estranged? 
Shall  I  bend  me  over  the  glassy  brook, 
No  more  on  the  face  of  a  child  to  look  ? 

No !  no !  for  that  loveliest  spot  upon  earth 

Let  memory's  charm  suffice ! 
But  the  spirit  will  long  to  the  place  of  her  birth 

From  time  and  its  change  to  rise  — 
To  soar  and  recover  her  primal  bloom 
When  death  with  his  trophy  has  stopp'd  at  the  tomb ! 


HANNAH  F.   GOULD.  269 


THE  WATERFALL. 

YE  mighty  waters,  that  have  joined  your  forces. 
Roaring  and  dashing  with  this  awful  sound, 

Here  are  ye  mingled  ;  but  the  distant  sources 
Whence  have  ye  issued,  where  shall  they  be  found  ? 

Who  may  retrace  the  ways  that  ye  have  taken, 
Ye  streams  and  drops  ?  who  separate  you  all, 

And  find  the  many  places  ye  've  forsaken, 
To  come  and  rush  together  down  the  fall? 

Through  thousand,  thousand  paths  have  ye  been  roaming 
In  earth  and  air,  who  now  each  other  urge 

To  the  last  point !  and  then,  so  madly  foaming, 
Leap  down  at  once  from  this  stupendous  verge. 

Some  in  the  lowering  cloud  awhile  were  centred, 

That  in  the  stream  beheld  its  sable  face, 
And  melted  into  tears,  that  falling  entered, 

With  sister  waters  on  the  sudden  race. 

Others,  to  light  that  beamed  upon  the  mountain, 
Have  from  the  vitals  of  the  rock  been  freed, 

In  silver  threads,  that,  shining  down  the  mountain, 
Twirled  off  among  the  verdure  of  the  mead. 

And  many  a  flower  that  bowed  beside  the  river, 
In  opening  beauty,  ere  the  dew  was  dried, 

Shook  by  the  breeze,  has  been  an  early  giver 
Of  her  pure  offering  to  the  rollino-  tide. 
23* 


270  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Thus  from  the  veins,  through  earth's  dark  bosom  pouring, 

Many  have  flowed  in  tributary  streams; 
Some  in  the  bow  that  bent,  the  sun  adoring, 

Have  shone  in  colors  borrowed  from  his  beams. 

But  He  who  holds  the  ocean  in  the  hollow 
Of  his  strong  hand,  can  separate  you  all! 

His  searching  eye  the  secret  way  will  follow, 
Of  every  drop  that  hurries  to  the  fall! 

We  are  like  you,  in  mighty  torrents  mingled, 
And  speeding  downward  to  one  common  home  ; 

Yet  there's  an  eye  that  every  drop  hath  singled, 
And  marked  the  winding  ways  through  which  we  come. 

Those  who  have  here  adored  the  Sun  of  heaven, 
And  shown  the  world  their  brightness  drawn  from  him, 

Again  before  him,  though  their  hues  be  seven, 
Shall  blend  their  beauty  never  to  grow  dim. 

We  bless  the  promise,  as  we  thus  are  tending 
Down  to  the  tomb,  that  gives  us  hope  to  rise, 

Before  the  Power  to  whom  we  now  are  bending, 
To  stand  his  bow  of  glory  in  the  skies. 


THE  WILD  VIOLET. 

VIOLET,  violet,  sparkling  with  dew, 

Down  in  the  meadow-laud  wild  where  you  grew, 

How  did  you  come  by  the  beautiful  blue 

With  which  your  soft  petals  unfold  ? 
And  how  do  you  hold  up  your  tender,  young  head 
When  rude,  sweeping  winds  rush  along  o'er  your  bed, 


HANNAH    F.  GOULD.  271 

And  dark,  gloomy  clouds  ranging  over  you,  shed 
Their  waters  so  heavy  and  cold  ? 

No  one  has  nursed  you,  or  watched  you  an  hour, 
Or  found  you  a  place  in  the  garden  or  bower  j 
And  they  cannot  yield  me  so  lovely  a  flower, 

As  here  I  have  found  at  my  feet ! 
Speak,  my  sweet  violet!  answer  and  tell 
How  you  have  grown  up  and  flourished  so  well, 
And  look  so  contented  where  lowly  you  dwell, 

And  we  thus  by  accident  meet ! 

"  The  same  careful  hand,"  the  Violet  said, 

"  That  holds  up  the  firmament,  holds  up  my  head  I 

And  He,  who  with  azure  the  skies  overspread, 

Has  painted  the  violet  blue. 
He  sprinkles  the  stars  out  above  me  by  night, 
And  sends  down  the  sunbeams  at  morning  with  light 
To  make  my  new  coronet  sparkling  and  bright, 

When  formed  of  a  drop  of  his  dew ! 

"  I've  nought  to  fear  from  the  black  heavy  cloud, 

Or  the  voice  of  the  tempest  that  comes  strong  and  loud  I 

Where,  born  near  the  lowland,  and  far  from  the  crowd, 

I  know,   and  I  live  but  for  ONE. 
He  soon  forms  a  mantle  about  me  to  cast, 
Of  long  silken  grass,  till  the  rain  and  the  blast 
And  all  that  seemed  threatening  have  harmlessly  passed, 

As  the  clouds  scud  before  the  warm  sun!" 


272  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  FROZEN  DOVE. 

AWAY,  away  from  the  path,  silly  dove, 
Where  the  foot,  that  may  carelessly  tread, 

Will  crush  thee !  —  what !  wilt  thou  not  move  ? 
Alas !  thou  art  stiffened  and  dead ! 

Allured  by  the  brightness  of  day, 
To  sink  'mid  the  shadows  of  night, 

Too  far  from  the  cote  didst  thou  stray, 
And  sadly  has  ended  thy  flight ! 

For  here,  with  the  snow  at  thy  breast, 
With  thy  wings  folded  close  to  thy  side, 

And  crouched  in  the  semblance  of  rest, 
Alone,  of  the  cold  thou  hast  died! 

Poor  bird  !  thou  hast  pictured  the  fate 

Of  many  in  life's  changeful  day, 
Who,  trusting,  have  found  but  too  late 

What  smiles  may  be  lit  to  betray. 

How  oft  for  illusions  that  shine 

In  a  cold  and  a  pitiless  world, 
Benighted  and  palsied  like  thine, 

Has  the  wing  and  the  spirit  been  furled  ! 

And  hearts  the  most  tender  and  light, 
In  their  warmth,  to  the  earth  have  been  thrown, 

Mid  the  chills  of  adversity's  night, 
To  suffer  and  perish  alone  ! 


HANNAH  F.GOULD.  273 


THE  GROUND  LAUREL. 

I  LOVE  thee,  pretty  nursling, 

Of  vernal  sun  and  rain ; 
For  thou  art  Flora's  firstling, 

And  leadest  in  her  train. 

When  far  away  I  found  thee, 

It  was  an  April  morn; 
The  chilling  blast  blew  round  thee, 

No  bud  had  decked  the  thorn. 

And  thou  alone  wert  hiding 
The  mossy  rocks  between, 

Where,  just  below  them  gliding, 
The  Merrimack  was  seen. 

And  while  my  hand  was  brushing 
Theseary  leaves  from  thee, 

It  seemed  as  thou  wert  blushing 
To  be  disclosed  to  me. 

So  modest,  fair,  and  fragrant, 
Where  all  was  wild  and  rude, 

To  cheer  the  lonely  vagrant 
Who  crossed  thy  solitude,  — 

Thou  didst  reward  my  ramble 

By  shining  at  my  feet, 
When,  over  brake  and  bramble, 

I  sought  thy  lone  retreat, — 

As  some  sweet  flower  of  pleasure 
Upon  our  path  may  bloom, 

'Mid  rocks  and  thorns  that  measure 
Our  journey  10  the  tomb. 


EMMA    C.  EMBURY. 


MRS.  EMBURY  is  a  native  of  New- York,  and  daughter  of 
Doctor  Manley,  a  physician  of  eminence  in  that  city.  She 
began  to  write  when  quite  young,  her  first  effusions  appear- 
ing in  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  orer  the  signature  of 
"  lanthe."  Soon  after  her  marriage,  in  1828,  was  publish- 
ed "  Guido,  —  and  other  Poems  j  —  by  lanthe ;"  —  a  hand- 
some volume,  which  attracted  considerable  attention.  The 
choice  of  subjects  for  the  principal  poems,  however,  was 
not  fortunate,  and  in  consequence  the  talents  of  the  author- 
ess did  not  receive  their  full  meed  of  praise.  She  had  enter- 
ed the  circle  in  which  L.  E.  L.,  Barry  Cornwall,  and  other 
popular  English  writers  were  then  strewing  with  the  flow- 
ers of  fancy  and  sentiment ;  and  no  wonder  that  the  deli- 
cate blossoms,  offered  by  our  young  poetess,  were  consid- 
ered merely  exotics,  which  she  had  trained  from  a  foreign 
root, —beautiful  as  Camellias,  but  hardly  worth  the  at- 
tempt to  cultivate  in  our  cold  climate  and  sterile  soil. 

It  is  the  natural  impulse  of  poetic  and  ardent  minds  to 
admire  the  genius  and  glory  of  Italy,  and  to  turn  to  that 
land  of  bright  skies  and  passionate  hearts  for  themes  of 
song.  Mrs.  Embury  did  but  follow  the  then  expressed 
opinion  of  all  European  critics,  and  the  admitted  acknow- 
ledgment of  most  Americans,  that  our  new  world  afforded 
no  subjects  propitious  for  the  muses. 


MRS.   EMBURY.  275 

Yet  surely,  in  a  land  where  the  wonders  of  nature  are  on 
a  scale  of  vast  and  glorious  magnificence  which  Europe 
cannot  parallel;  and  the  beautiful  and  the  fertile  are  open- 
ing their  treasures  on  every  side;  and  enterprise  and 
change,  excitement  and  improvement,  are  the  elements  of 
social  life,  — there  must  be  poetry  !  Happily  "  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming,"  to  say  nothing  of  what  American  poets  have 
written,  has  settled  the  question.  — We  have  named  this 
subject,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  entreating  our  American 
poetesses  to  look  into  their  own  hearts,  not  into  the  poems 
of  others,  for  inspiration,  and  to  sing,  in  accordance  with 
Nature  and  human  life  around  them, 

"  The  beauteous  scenes  of  our  own  lovely  land." 

Mrs.  Embury  has  a  fertile  fancy,  and  her  versification 
flows  with,  uncommon  ease  and  grace ;  —  she  has  fine  sen- 
sibilities, and  her  pictures  of  beauty  are  clear  and  soft  as 
the  summer  moonbeams  on  a  placid  lake ;  and  in  some  of 
her  poems  there  is  pathos  and  deep  tenderness.  —  In  her 
later  poems  she  has  greatly  improved  her  style  —  that  is, 
she  writes  naturally,  from  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings, 
and  not  from  a  model ;  and  some  of  her  short  pieces  are 
very  beautiful. — She  is,  too,  a  popular  prose  writer,  many 
sketches  and  stories  from  her  pen  enrich  our  periodical  lit- 
erature. And  she  is  warmly  engaged  in  the  cause  of  im- 
proving her  own  sex,  and  has  written  on  the  subject  of 
"  Female  Education"  with  much  judgment,  discrimination 
and  delicacy.  —  If  she  were  under  a  necessity  of  writing, 
we  should  not  doubt  that  she  would  soon  excel ;  but  this 
is  not  the  case.  Wealth  makes  smooth  the  path  of  life  be- 
fore her,  and  herhusbandand  children  engross  her  heart — 
what  she  writes  is,  therefore,  from  the  impulse  of  genius, 
or  the  desire  to  oblige  her  friends. 


276  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


CLARA. 

11  You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly  blessings 
Follow  such  creatures."  HENRY  VIII. 

SHE  had  sprung  up  like  a  sweet  wild  flower,  hid 
From  common  eyes,  in  some  lone  dell,  amid 
The  light  and  dews  of  heaven  ;  and  ne'er  was  found 
A  purer  bud  on  earth's  unhallowed  ground. 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  the  admiring  eye 
Loved  less  its  beauty  than  its  purity  ; 
No  cloud  e'er  darkened  o'er  that  placid  brow ; 
No  care  e'er  dimmed  her  bright  smile's  sunny  glow  ; 
A  gentle  heart  that  ne'er  had  dreamed  of  sin 
Or  suffering,  shone  her  dove-1  ke  eyes  within ; 
And  the  high  hope  that  with  such  calm  joy  stirs 
The  trusting  soul  — the  Christian's  hope  was  hers  : 
'Twas  this  that  gave  such  sweetness  to  a  mien 
So  softly  gay,  so  peaceful  and  serene  ; 
Calm  without  apathy  ;  as  woman  mild, 
Yet  innocent  and  playful  as  a  child. 

But  in  her  heart  there  was  one  unbreathed  thought, 
With  all  a  woman's  holiest  fondness  fraught : 
Hers  was  not  wild,  fierce  passion,  such  as  glows 
In  untamed  hearts,  but  the  calm  love  that  grows 
Within  the  soul  like  an  expanding  flower, 
Breathing  its  perfume  o'er  each  passing  hour: 
From  infancy  it  grew.  —  The  graceful  boy 
To  whose  embrace  she  clung  with  childish  joy, 
And  on  whose  breast  her  head  had  oft  reposed 
When  weariness  her  infant  eyes  had  closed, 
Was  still  as  dear  to  her  young  bosom  now, 
Though  time  had  written  man  upon  his  brow. 


MRS.   EMBURY.  277 

There  was  no  shame  in  such  a  love  concealed 
In  her  heart's  quiet  depths,  or  but  revealed 
By  the  slight  tremor  or  the  blush  that  came 
O'er  cheek  and  bosom,  when  she  heard  his  name. 

And  did  not  Henry  look  with  loving  eye 
On  the  fair  orphan,  who  so  tenderly 
Cherished  his  image  ?  —  long  he  vainly  strove 
To  check  the  feeling  he  dared  not  call  love : 
He  thought  of  earlier  days,  when  she  had  smiled 
In  his  encircling  arms,  a  reckless  child : 
Could  she  forget  the  difference  in  their  years, 
And  listen  to  a  lover's  hopes  and  fears 
From  one  so  much  her  elder?  —  he  might  claim 
A  sister's  tenderness ;  but  the  pure  flame 
Of  deep  and  deathless  love  could  never  be 
Kindled  by  him  in  its  intensity. 
Thus  deemed  he  in  his  hopelessness ;  but  vain 
His  efforts  to  repress  the  thrilling  pain 
That  filled  his  heart,  while  thinking  of  the  hour 
When  he  should  see  his  loved  and  cherished  flower 
Breathing  in  fragrance  in  another's  bower. 

One  balmy  summer  eve,  with  him  she  roved 
Through  many  a  green-wood  haunt  they  long  had  loved  ; 
When,  as  they  gazed  upon  the  glorious  west, 
Dark  clouds  obscured  the  bright  sun's  glowing  crest; 
And  through  the  forest  trees  the  wind's  wild  cry 
Rang,  as  of  some  strong  man  in  agony. 
A  storm  was  coming,  and  while,  pale  with  fear, 
She  clung  to  him,  his  own  proud  castle  near 
Offered  them  shelter  —  in  his  arms  he  bore 
The  maiden  to  those  halls  oft  trod  before 
In  childhood's  day ;  and  while  the  tempest's  strife 
Blackened  the  scene  so  late  with  gladness  rife, 
His  heart  was  filled  with  joy  ;  for  maiden  pride 
Was  hushed  by  fear,  and  Clara  dared  to  hide 
24 


278  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

Her  face  upon  his  breast,  while  the  red  fire 
Flashed  from  dark  clouds,  careering  in  their  ire 
Like  angry  spirits.  —  Ere  an  hour  had  past, 
The  storm  was  spent,  and  its  terrific  blast 
Hushed  into  stillness  ;  but,  before  they  turned 
To  leave  the  spot,  the  restless  thoughts  that  burned 
In  Henry's  breast,  were  breathed  o'er  Clara's  cheek, 
And  silence  answered  more  than  words  could  speak. 

And  they  were  wed  —  oh,  gentle  Love,  how  dear 
Is  thy  sweet  influence  when  thou  thus  dost  rear 
Amid  our  household  gods  thy  sacred  shrine, 
And  giv'st  thy  torch  upon  our  hearths  to  shine, 
Folding  in  calm  repose  thy  xadiant  wings, 
And  gathering  round  our  homes  earth's  purest,  loveliest 
things ! 


THE  MOTHER'S   FAREWELL  TO  HER  WED- 
DED DAUGHTER. 

Go,  dearest  one ;  my  selfish  love  shall  never  pale  thy  cheek ; 
Not  e'en  a  mother's  fears  for  thee  will  I  in  sadness  speak : 
Yet  how  can  I  with  coldness  check  the  burning  tears  that 

start  ?  — 
Hast  thou  not  turned  from  me,  to  dwell  within  another's 

heart  ? 

I  think  on  earlier,  brighter  days,  when  first  my  lip  was  prest 
Upon  thy  baby  brow,  whilst  thou  lay  helpless  on  my  breast. 
In  fancy  still  I  see  thine  eye  uplifted  to  my  face ; 
I  hear  thy  lisping  tones,  and  mark  with  joy  thy  childish 
grace. 


MRS.    EMBURY.  279 

E'en  then  I  knew  it  would  be  thus ;  I  thought  e'en  in  that 

hour, 
Another  would  its  perfume  steal,  when  I  had  reared  the 

flower ; 

And  yet  I  will  not  breathe  a  sigh  —  how  can  I  dare  repine  ? 
The  sorrow  that  thy  mother  feels  was  suffered  once  by 

mine. 

A  mother's  love!  —  oh!  thou  knowest  not  how  much  of 

feeling  lies 
In  those   sweet  words;   the  hopes,  the  fears,  the   daily 

strength'ning  ties : 

It  lives  ere  yet  the  infant  draws  its  earliest  vital  breath, 
And  dies  but  when  the  mother's  heart  chills  in  the  grasp 

of  death. 

Will  he,  in  whose  fond  arms  thou  seek'st  thine  all  of  earth- 
ly bliss, 

E'er  feel  a  love  untiring,  deep,  and  free  from  self  as  this  ? 
Ah,  no !  a  husband's  tenderness  thy  gentle  heart  may  prove ; 
But  never,  never  wilt  thou  meet  again  a  mother's  love. 

My  love  for  thee  must  ever  be  fond  as  in  years  gone  by  ; 
While  to  thy  heart  I  shall  be  like  a  dream  of  memory. 
Dearest,  farewell !  may  angel  hosts  their  vigils  o'er  thee 

keep, — 
How  can  I  speak  that  fearful  word,  "  farewell,"  and  yet  not 

weep? 


THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


STANZAS. 

I  LOVED  thee  —  not  because  thy  brow 

Was  bright  and  beautiful  as  day, 
Nor  that  on  thy  sweet  lip  the  glow 

Was  joyous  as  yon  sunny  ray. 
No ;  though  I  saw  thee  fairest  far, 
The  sun  that  hid  each  meaner  star ; 
Yet  'twas  not  this  that  taught  me  first 
The  lore  that  silent  tears  have  nurst. 

Nor  was  it  that  thine  every  word 
With  stores  of  intellect  was  fraught, 

With  eloquence  each  heart  that  stirred, 
With  deepest  feeling,  holiest  thought ; 

Nor  thy  sweet  voice,  whose  witching  spell 

Like  music  on  my  spirit  fell, 

Rich  as  the  notes  the  mellow  horn 

Breathes  when  o'er  moon-lit  waters  borne. 

« 

But  I  beheld  the  darkening  stain 

Of  tears  becloud  that  beaming  eye, 
And  marked  thy  bosom's  secret  pain 

Find  utterance  in  the  struggling  sigh : 
Then  too,  like  some  neglected  lute, 
My  young  heart's  sweetest  chords  were  mute ; 
No  hand  had  ever  touched  its  strings, 
To  wake  its  blissful  murmurings.  — 
Was  it  not  then  just  fit  to  be 
Roused  by  the  touch  of  sympathy  ? 

Yes,  thine  the  touch  that  first  awoke 
The  hidden  music  of  my  heart  j 


MRS.   EMBURY.  281 

Thy  hand  the  chain  of  silence  broke. 

And  bade  it  love's  sweet  tones  impart: 
And  now  could  even  beauty  wane 
Till  not  one  noble  trace  remain; 
Could  genius  sink  in  dull  decay, 
And  wisdom  cease  to  lend  her  ray  ;. 
Should  all  that  I  have  worshipped  change, 
E'en  this  could  not  my  heart  estrange ; 
Thou  still  wouldst  be  the  first,  the  first 
That  taught  the  love  sad  tears  have  nurst. 


THE  THREE  PAINTERS. 

FIRST,  Fancy  seized  the  brush,  and  well 

Her  magic  hues  she  blent, 
As  beautiful  as  if  Heaven's  bow 

Its  own  bright  hues  had  lent : 
But,  ere  her  brush  was  laid  aside, 

Each  lovely  scene  had  fled, 
And  not  a  trace  remained  to  show 

The  tints  her  hand  had  spread. 

Next,  Feeling,  from  the  heart's  rich  store, 

Her  varied  hue  supplies ; 
And  never  sunset  clouds  could  wear 

More  deep  and  gorgeous  dyes. 
"  These  will  not  fade."— E'en  while  she  spoke, 

Her  own  rude  touch  effaced 
All  that  with  so  much  anxious  skill 

The  pencil's  art  had  traced. 

Then  Memory  came  —with  dark  cold  tints, 
And  pencil  rude,  she  drew 
24* 


282  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

The  scenes  of  many  a  vanished  joy. 
Which  once  the  sad  heart  knew. 

I  looked,  in  hope  her  dreary  sketch 
Like  Fancy's  scenes  would  fade  : 

I  hoped  in  vain  —  fadeless  her  tints  — 
She  only  paints  in  shade. 


MELANCHOLY. 

"  There  are  times  when  melancholy  thoughts  oppress  us,  we  know 
not  why,  and  come  upon  us,  we  know  not  whence.  In  the  midst  of 
the  festive  scene,  no  leas  frequently  than  in  the  loneliness  of  our 
closet,  our  hearts  thrill  beneath  them,  even  as  the  chords  of  an  un- 
touched heart  will  vibrate  to  the  wild  sweep  of  the  evening  breeze." 

WHENCE  comes  this  painful  heaviness  of  soul, 
These  dark  presentiments  of  coming  ill  ? 
These  dreams,  that  spurn  at  reason's  sage  control? 
And  these  thick  gathering  phantasies  that  fill 
The  spirit  with  deep  fearfulness,  and  chill 
The  heart  with  sudden  terror?  —  Are  they  sent 
As  portents  of  the  future,  to  fulfil 
The  dark  decrees  of  fate,  or  only  meant 
To  sap  the  strength  of  mind  —  man's  noblest  battlement? 

We  know  not  whence  they  come,  nor  can  we  tell 
Whither  they  flee  —  we  only  feel  their  power 
Withering  our  hearts  by  some  mysterious  spell, 
And  stealing  o'er  us,  even  in  the  hour 
When  hope  and  joy  are  brightest,  till  we  cower 
Before  these  shadows,  as  the  warrior  steed 
Undaunted  braves  the  battle's  iron  shower, 
And  yet  will  quiver  like  a  shaken  reed, 
If  through  a  moonlit  wood  his  onward  pathway  lead. 


MRS.    EMBURY.  283 

Oh  man,  how  stange  a  mystery  thou  art ! 
The  noblest,  yet  the  weakest  in  creation; 
Unable  to  subdue  thine  own  proud  heart, 
Yet  swaying  oft  the  fortunes  of  a  nation ; 
Godlike  in  thy  high  attributes  and  station, 
Wormlike  in  each  low,  grovelling  desire  ; 
Yet,  even  in  thy  lowest  degradation, 
Showing  forth  glimpses  of  that  heavenly  fire, 
Which,  though  earth-stained  and  dim,can  never  quite  expire. 


THE  WIDOW'S  WOOER. 

HE  woos  me  with  those  honied  words 

That  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries  that  fall 

So  sweet  on  every  ear. 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 

Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade  : 
My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 

In  sorow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me,  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days, 
And  whispers,  in  love's  thrilling  tones, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks, 

Some  answering  love  to  see,  — 
In  vain!  he  there  can  only  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thoughts  awake, 

With  every  gentle  word; 
How,  by  his  looks  and  tones,  the  founts 

Of  tenderness  are  stirred. 


284  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

The  visions  of  my  youth  return, 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last ; 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss  ; 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 

Like  lamps  in  Eastern  sepulchres, 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom, 
Affection  sheds  its  holiest  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb. 
And,  as  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  more 

To  upper  air,  grow  dim, 
So  my  soul's  love  is  cold  and  dead, 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 


STANZAS  TO  A  SISTER. 

"  Her  lot  is  on  you  —  silent  tears  to  weep, 
And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 

And  sumless  wishes  from  affection's  deep, 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds,  a  wasted  shower ! 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 

And  to  bewail  that  worship —  therefore  pray!  " 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 

AY,  mark  the  strain,  sweet  Sister !  watch  and  pray  — 
Wean  thy  young  stainless  heart  from  earthly  things : 

Oh !  wait  not  thou  till  life's  blest  morning  ray 
Only  o'er  withered  hopes  its  radiance  flings ; 

But  give  to  Heaven  thy  sinless  spirit  71010, 

Ere  sorrow's  tracery  mar  the  placid  brow. 

Gentle  and  pure  thou  art  —  yet  is  thy  soul 

Fill'd  with  a  maiden's  vague  and  pleasant  dreams, 


MRS.  EMBURY.  285 

Sweet  phantasies,  that  mock  at  thought's  control, 
Like  atoms  round  thee  float,  in  fancy's  beams  ; 
But  trust  them  not,  young  dreamer,  bid  them  flee  — • 
They  have  deceived  all  others,  and  will  thee. 

Well  can  I  read  thy  dreams  — thy  gentle  heart, 

Already  woman's  in  its  wish  to  bless, 
Now  longs  for  one,  to  whom  it  may  impart 

Its  untold  wealth  of  hidden  tenderness, 
And  pants  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  thrill 
Which  wakes  when  fancy  stirs  affection's  rill. 

Thou  dreamest  too  of  happiness  —  the  deep 
And  placid  joy  which  poet's  paint  so  well : 

Alas !  man's  passions,  even  when  they  sleep, 

Like  ocean's  waves  are  heaved  with  secret  swell; 

And  they  who  hear  the  frequent  half-hushed  sigh, 

Know  't  is  the  wailing  of  the  storm  gone  by. 

Vain  are  all  such  visions !  —  couldst  'ihou  know 

The  secrets  of  a  woman's  weary  lot  — 
Oh !  couldst  thou  read,  upon  her  pride-veiled  brow, 

Her  wasted  tenderness,  her  love  forgot, — 
In  humbleness  of  heart  thou  wouldst  kneel  down, 
And  pray  for  strength  to  wear  her  victim  crown. 

But  thou  wilt  do  as  all  have  done  before, 

And  make  thy  heart  for  earthly  gods  a  shrine  ; 

There  all  affection's  priceless  treasures  pour, 

There  hope's  fair  flowers  in  votive  garlands  twine  ; 
.  And  thou  wilt  meet  the  recompense  all  must, 

Who  give  to  mortal  love  their  faith  and  trust. 


A  \  \  A    MARIA    WELI   - 


MRS.  WELLS  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Mass.  Her  maid- 
en name  was  Foster.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  an 
infant ;  her  mother  married  a  second  husband,  and  soon  al- 
ter removed  to  Boston,  where  Anna  Maria  received  every 
advantage  of  education  then  enjoyed  by  young  ladies.  She 
was  distinguished  during  childhood  for  her  passionate  love 
of  reading  and  of  music — these  pursuits  almost  excluding 
the  desire  for  what  are  usually  considered  amusements,  of 
every  kind.  Her  juvenile  essays  in  literary  composition 
are  said  to  have  evinced  quite  a  precocity  'of  genius ;  but, 
happily,  her  taste  was  also  early  formed  and  refined,  and 
hence  she  was  a  fastidious  critic  of  her  own  performances. 
It  was  not  easy,  therefore,  to  induce  her  to  publish  her  ef- 
fusions ;  and  she  rarely  did  this  till  after  her  marriage,  in 
18—. 

Her  husband,  Thomas  Wells,  was  a  man  of  consider- 
able literary  talent  and  taste ;  but,  unfortunately  for  his 
family,  he  had  small  inclination  for  business,  and  great 
love  for  the  luxuries  of  life.  Mrs.  Wells,  in  consequence, 
found  it  necessary  to  exert  her  own  powers.  There  is  no 
stimulus  to  the  female  mind  so  irresistible  as  the  maternal 
affections.  Let  the  mother  find  that  her  genius  can  confer 
benefits  on  her  children,  and  she  will  be  roused  to  efforts 
of  mind,  which  no  other  earthly  inducement  could  have 
her  attempt. 


A.  M.  W.  '2S7 

In  1831,  Mrs.  Wells  appeared  before  the  public  as  au- 
thoress of  "  Poems  and  Juvenile  Sketches,"  a  volume  which 
was  commended,  as  the  production  of  maternal  love  and 
female  genius  should  be,  in  a  community  which  ostensibly 
wakes  virtue  and  talent  the  basis  of  renown.  She  had  pre- 
viously contributed  to  several  periodicals,  and  her  pure  and 
gentle  muse  was  always  kindly  welcomed.  But,  in  our 
land,  the  muse,  though  she  may  command  praise,  can  rare- 
ly command  "  the  siller."  Mrs.  Wells  had  four  children, 
—  and  the  care  of  supporting  and  educating  these,  was  im- 
posed on  her.  Like  Mrs.  Hemans,  she  had  to  tax  her  own 
powers  for  the  means  to  "meet  the  exigency  of  the  boys1 
education,"  and  she  found  her  talent  for  music  the  most 
available  for  her  purpose.  She  has,  for  the  last  year  or 
two,  resided  at  the  South,  where  her  virtues,  genius  and 
accomplishments  render  her  highly  esteemed  and  beloved. 

The  predominant  characteristics  of  her  poetry  are  ten- 
derness of  feeling,  and  simplicity  and  perspicuity  of  lan- 
guage. Her  eyes  seem  to  "  love  all  they  look  on,"  and  her 
imagination  invests  every  object  she  describes  with  some- 
thing  that  is  loveable.  She  has  the  true  ethereal  touch  of 
genius-,  for  she  can  beautify  creation,  and  sanctify  the 
household  affections,  and  draw  human  hearts  away  from 
their  worldliness,  to  admite  images  of  simple  beauty,  and 
to  lift  up  their  yearning  thoughts  to  "  things  that  are  un- 
seen and  eternal."  But  she  attempts  no  ambitious  theme ; 
humble  as  the  "  Sweet-Brier  Rose  "  that 
» 

"  Grows  along 

The  poor  girl's  pathway,  by  the  poor  man's  door,  " 

is  her  gentle  muse —and,  like  that  "  little  four-leaved  rose," 
it  may  be  said  of  her  song,  that 

"  Its  sweetness  all  is  of  our  native  land." 


288  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Been  nurtur'd,  and,  within  their  humble  sphere. 
Diffus'd  around  love  — joy  —  intelligence? 
Where  are  the  golden  stores  of  mind  ?  —  the  fruits 
Of  intellectual  and  of  moral  strength  ? 
Oh,  inward  voice,  that  must  be  answered,  cease, 
Or  help  my  prayers,  or  tell  my  sinking  heart 
That  th' All-Wise  is  th' All-Merciful. 


THE  OLD  ELM  TREE. 

EACH  morning  when  my  waking  eyes  first  see, 

Through  the  wreathed  lattice,  golden  day  appear, 

There  sits  a  robin  on  the  old  elm  tree, 

And  with  such  stirring  music  fills  my  ear, 

I  might  forget  that  life  had  pain  or  fear  ; 

And  feel  again,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 

When  hope  was  young,  and  joy  and  life  itself  were  new. 

No  miser,  o'er  his  heaps  of  hoarded  gold, 

Nor  monarch,  in  the  plenitude  of  power, 

Nor  lover  free  the  chaste  maid  to  enfold 

Who  ne'er  hath  owned  her  love  'till  that  blest  hour, 

Nor  poet  couched  in  rocky  nook  or  bower, 

Knoweth  more  heart-felt  happiness  than  he, 

That  never  tiring  warbler  of  the  old  elm  tree. 

From  even  the  poorest  of  Heaven's  creatures,  such 

As  know  no  rule  of  impulse,  we  may  draw 

Lessons  of  sweet  humility,  and  much 

Of  apt  instruction  in  the  homely  law 

Of  Nature  ;  — and  the  time  hath  been,  I  saw 

Nought,  beautiful  or  mean,  but  had  for  me 

Some  charm,  even  like  the  warbler  of  the  old  elm  tree. 


A.  M.  W.  289 

And,  listening  to  his  joy-inspiring  lay, 

Some  meet  reflections  are  engendered  thence  ; 

As,  half  in  tears,  unto  myself  I  say, 

God,  who  hath  given  this  creature  sources,  whence 

He  such  delight  may  gather  and  dispense, 

Hath  in  my  heart  joy's  living  fountain  placed, 

More  free  to  flow,  the  oftener  of  its  waves  I  taste. 


THE  TAMED  EAGLE. 

HE  sat  upon  his  humble  perch,  nor  flew 

At  my  approach; 

But  as  I  nearer  drew, 
Looked  on  me,  as  I  fancied,  with  reproach, 

And  sadness  too : 

And  something  still  his  native  pride  proclaimed, 

Despite  his  wo; 

Which,  when  I  marked,  —  ashamed 
To  see  a  noble  creature  brought  so  low, 

My  heart  exclaimed, 

"  Where  is  the  fire  that  lit  thy  fearless  eye, 
Child  of  the  storm, 
When  from  thy  home  on  high. 

Yon  craggy-breasted  rock,  I  saw  thy  form 
Cleaving  the  sky  ? 

It  grieveth  me  to  see  thy  spirit  tamed  — 
Gone  out  the  light 
That  in  thine  eye-ball  flamed, 

When  to  the  midday  sun  thy  steady  flight 
Was  proudly  aimed ! 


290  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Like  a  young  dove  forsaken,  is  the  look 
Of  thy  sad  eye, 
Who,  in  some  lonely  nook, 

Mourns  on  the  willow  bough  her  destiny, 
Beside  the  brook. 

Oh,  let  not  me  insult  thy  fallen  dignity, 

Thou  monarch  bird, 

Gazing  with  vulgar  eye 
Upon  thy  ruin ;  —  for  my  heart  is  stirred 

To  hear  thy  cry ; 

Yet,  something  sterner  in  thy  downward  gaze 

Doth  seem  to  lower, 

And  deep  disdain  betrays, 
As  if  thou  cursed  man's  poorly  acted  power, 

And  scorned  his  praise. 


ANNA. 

WITH  the  first  ray  of  morning  light 
Her  face  is  close  to  mine  —  her  face  all  smiles : 
She  hovers  round  my  pillow  like  a  sprite 
Mingling  with  tenderness  her  playful  wiles. 
All  the  long  day, 
She's  at  some  busy  play  ; 
Or,  twixt  her  tiny  fingers 
The  scissors  or  the  needle  speeds 
Or  some  sweet  story-book  she  reads, 
And  o'er  it,  serious,  lingers. 

She  steps  like  some  glad  creature  of  the  air, 
As  if  she  read  her  fate,  and  knew  it  fair,  — 
In  truth,  for  fate  at  all  she  hath  no  care. 
Yet  hath  she  tears  as  well  as  gladness : 
A  butterfly  in  pain, 


A.  M.  W.  291 

Will  make  her  weep  for  sadness, 

But  straight  she'll  smile  again. 
And  lately  she  hath  pressed  the  couch  of  pain: 

Sickness  hath  dimmed  her  eye, 
And  on  her  tender  spirit  lain, 

And  brought  her  near  to  die. 

But  like  the  flower 

That  droops  at  evening  hour 
And  opens  gaily  in  the  morning ; 

Again  her  quick  eye  glows, 

And  health's  fresh  rose 
Her  soft  cheek  is  adorning. 

Hushed  was  her  childish  lay : 

Like  some  sweet  bird  did  sickness  hold  her  in  a  net; 
And  when  she  broke  away, 
And  shook  her  wings  in  the  bright  day, 
Her  recent  capture  she  did  quite  forget. 
What  joy  again  to  hear  her  blessed  voice ! 
My  heart,  lie  still!  but  in  thy  quietness  rejoice! 
Again,  along  the  floor  and  on  the  stair, 
Coming  and  going,  I  hear  her  rapid  feet. 
Again  her  little,    simple,  earnest  prayer, 
Hear  her,  at  bed  time,  in  low  voice  repeat. 
Again,  at  table,  and  the  fire  beside, 
Her  dear  head  rises,  smiling  with  the  rest. 
Again  her  heart  and  mind  are  open  wide 
To  yield  and  to  receive  —  bless  and  be  blest, 
Pliant  and  teachable,  and  oft  revealing 
Thoughts  that  must  ripen  into  higher  feeling. 
Oh  sweet  maturity  !  —  the  gentle  mood 
Raised  to  the  intellectual  and  the  good. 
The  bright,  affectionate  and  happy  child  — 
The  woman,  pure,  intelligent  and  mild  ! 
It  must  be  so:  —  they  cannot  waste  on  air 
A  mother's  labor,  and  a  mother's  prayer. 


292  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  WHIPPOORWILL. 

THE  shades  of  eve  are  gathering  slowly  round, 
And  silence  hangs  o'er  meadow,  grove  and  hill, 

Save  one  lone  voice,  that,  with  continuous  sound, 
Calls  thro'  the  deep'ning  twilight —  Whippooricill. 

Faintly  is  heard  the  whispering  mountain  breeze ; 

Faintly  the  rushing  brook  that  turned  the  mill : 
Hush'd  is  the  song  of  birds  —  the  hum  of  bees;  — 

The  hour  is  all  thine  own,  sad  WhippooTtrill. 

No  more  the  woodman's  axe  is  heard  10  fall : 
No  more  the  ploughman  sings  with  rustic  skill, 

As  if  earth's  echoes  woke  no  other  call, 
Again  and  yet  again,  comes  H7n;>/)oonri7/. 

Alas!  enough  before  my  heart  was  sad, 
Sweet  bird  !  thou  mak'st  it  sadder,  sadder  still. 

Enough  of  mourning  has  my  spirit  had  ; 
I  would  not  hear  thee  mourn,  poor  JfTirppoorif »//. 

Thoughts  of  my  distant  home  upon  me  press, 
And  thronging  doubts,  and  fears  of  coming  ill: 

My  lone  heart  feels  a  deeper  loneliness, 
Touched  with  that  plaintive  burthen  —  Whippooncill 

Sing  to  the  village  lass,  whose  happy  home 

Lies  in  yon  quiet  vale,  behind  the  hill ; 
But,  doomed  far,  far  from  all  I  love  to  roam— - 

Sing  not  to  me,  oh  gentle  WTiippovnrill. 

Loved  ones  !  my  children  !  ah  they  cannot  hear 
My  voice  that  calls  to  them.    An  answer  shrill, 


A.  M.  W.  293 

A  shrill,  unconscious  answer  rises  near, 
Repeating,  still  repeating  Whippoorwill. 

Another  name  my  lips  would  breathe ;  —  but  then 
Such  tender  memories  all  my  bosom  fill: 

Back  to  my  sorrowing  breast  it  sinks  again  ! 
Hush,  or  thou'lt  break  my  heart,  sad   Whippoorwill. 


LINES, 

"  They  remembered  their  Creator  in  the  days  of  their  youth.' 

I  SAW,  and  blessed  them  !     From  amid  the  crowd 
I  blessed  them  in  the  silence  of  my  heart : 
A  troubled  spirit  fluttered  there,  and  brought, 
With  a  sweet  tumult,  tears  into  my  eyes. 

Up  to  God's  temple,  three  fair  boys  had  come, 
And  in  the  glow  of  young  devotion  stood, 
And  a  pure  faith,  to  give  themselves  to  Him. 
Their  white  robes  flowed  around  them,  and  their  step 
Was  firm  as  if  they  knew  they  trod  upon 
The  Rock  of  Ages.     To  the  altar  first, 
Came  one  with  brow  upraised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eyes  made  eloquent  with  serious  joy. 
Another  bowed  his  youthful  head  ;  and  but 
That  his  clasped  hands  were  tremulous  with  awe, 
And  on  his  cheek  a  flush  would  come  and  go, 
He  might  have  seemed,  so  motionless  he  stood, 
A  statue  by  some  gifted  sculptor  wrought. 
The  third,  as  he  had  been  my  own  fond  boy, 
Far,  far  away,  stirred  all  the  mother's  heart 
Within  me,  for  he  seemed  scarcely  emerged 
From  infancy,  and  it  was  sweet  to  see 


294  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

The  innocent  look  of  childhood  blending  with 

Devotion's  light :  a  dew-steeped  violet 

At  early  morn,  touched  with  the  sun's  warm  ray  ! 

Children !  once  more  I  bless  you :  may  your  steps 
In  pastures  green  be  found,  and  by  the  side 
Of  the  still  waters ;  as  ye  early  seek, 
So  shall  ye  see  the  beauty  of  the  Lord. 


TO  A  YOUNG  MOTHER. 

BELINDA  !  The  young  blossom  that  doth  lie 
So  lightly  on  thy  bosom,  —  clasp  it  there  ; 
For  on  her  brow  an  empress  doth  not  wear, 
Nor  in  her  jewelled  zone,  a  gem  more  fair, 
Or  that  doth  deck  her  more  becomingly. 
Forget  not  then,  that  deep  within  thy  flower 
The  germs  lie  hid  of  lovelier,  holier  things:  — 
Filial  affection,  that  spontaneous  springs  ; 
High  truth,  and  maiden  purity  ;  —  the  power 
That  comes  of  gentleness  /  —  ay,  and  more,  — 
Piety,  nourished  in  the  bosom's  core  ; 
These,  if  so  cherished,  shall  thy  blossom  bear, 
And  with  the  dews  of  heavenly  love  impearled, 
It  shall  adorn  thee  in  another  world. 


SARAH    LOUISA    P.    SMITH. 


IT  is  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  gather  up  the  memorials 
of  departed  genius  and  worth ;  and  we  linger  over  the  song 
of  one  who  passed  away  in  her  bloom  and  brightness  from 
earth,  as  though  it  were  a  holy  strain,  because  the  sweet 
lyrist  was  so  near 

"The  world  of  peace,  of  joy,  and  perfect  love." 

Mrs.  Smith,  formerly  Miss  Hickman,  was  born  June,  1811, 
and  died  February,  1832,  in  the  21st  year  of  her  age.  Her 
maternal  ancestors  resided  many  years  at  Newton,  near 
Boston ;  but  Louisa  was  born  at  Detroit,  while  her  grand- 
father, Major-general  William  Hull  was  governor  of  that 
territory.  Mrs.  Hickman  returned  to  Newton  when  Lou- 
isa was  in  her  infancy,  and  there  devoted  herself  to  the  ed- 
ucation of  her  two  daughters.  The  uncommon  quickness 
of  talent  exhibited  by  Louisa,  soon  attracted  attention  from 
her  instructers.  She  had  a  most  wonderful  memory,  and 
gathered  knowledge  without  any  apparent  effort  —  yet  was 
she  ever  among  the  most  active  in  mental  pursuits.  And 
the  ease  with  which  she  acquired  information  was  not 
more  remarkable  than  the  modesty  which  accompanied  her 
superiority.  She  began  to  write  when  a  mere  child,  and 
these  juvenile  productions  were  often  so  excellent,  as  to 
elicit  great  commendations  from  her  family  and  their  con- 
26 


302  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

fidential  friends;  yet  this  praise  never  fostered  pride  or 
self-confidence  in  the  youthful  poetess.  She  wrote  from 
the  spontaneous  overflowing  of  her  own  heart,  which 
seemed  filled  with  thoughts  of  beauty,  and  all  tender  and 
sweet  emotions.  By  the  persuasion  of  her  friends,  she  was 
induced  to  send  some  of  her  effusions,  anonymously,  to 
different  periodicals.  These  were  greatly  admired,  and 
often  reprinted.  Before  she  was  fifteen  her  name  had  he- 
come  known,  and  she  was  distinguished  as  a  young  lady 
of  uncommon  powers  of  intellect.  She  was  soon  an  object 
of  attention.  Her  personal  appearance  was  very  prepos- 
sessing. She  had  a  countenance  bright  with  the  "light  of 
mind,"  a  soft  and  delicate  complexion,  a  "  large  loving 
eye,"  and  a  head  of  that  fine  "spiritual  form,"  which  at 
once  impresses  the  beholder  with  the  majesty  and  purity 
of  the  mind  within. 

In  the  autumn  of  1828,  Miss  Hickman  was  married  to 
Mr.  S.  J.  Smith,  then  the  editor  of  a  literary  periodical  in 
Providence.  Soon  after  her  marriage,  her  husband  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  her  Poems ;  some  collected  from  the 
literary  journals,  and  others  written  as  the  book  was  pass- 
ing through  the  press.  She  was  then  but  u  careless  seven- 
teen," as  she  says  of  herself;  and  it  was  a  hazardous  ex- 
periment to  give  a  volume  of  poetry,  which  must  have 
been,  however  highly  imbued  with  genius,  more  fraught 
with  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  others,  than  with  those 
teachings  of  truth  and  nature  which  experience  in  the  real 
world  can  only  bestow.  But  the  book  was  popular,  and 
though  she  would,  had  she  lived  till  the  maturity  of  her 
powers,  no  doubt  greatly  excelled  her  early  writings,  yet, 
as  the  blossoms  of  an  original  and  extraordinary  genius, 
these  poems  will  ever  be  admired.  And  yet  it  is  not  as  an 
authoress  that  she  is  remembered  and  lamented  by  her  inti- 
mate friends,  or  by  those  who  had  the  pleasure  of  a  brief 
personal  acquaintance.  "  Any  literary  reputation  that  she 
might  have  acquired,  could  never  have  been  thought  of  in 


LOUI  SA  P.  SMITH.  303 

her  presence ;"  is  the  testimony  of  one  who  knew  her.  "  It 
was  the  confiding  sincerity  of  her  manners,  the  playfulness 
of  her  conversation,  her  enthusiastic  and  devoted  assiduity 
to  those  she  loved,  which  made  her  presence  a  perpetual 
delight."  —  In  her  own  home  she  was  a  model  of  discretion, 
cheerfulness  and  kindness.  Her  husband  was  always  her 
lover,  and  her  two  little  sons  she  cherished  with  that  pecu- 
liar tenderness  which  only  those  endowed  with  the  finest 
sensibilities  can  feel.  Yet,  amid  all  her  maternal  and 
household  cares,  her  mind  was  rapidly  gathering  strength 
for  high  literary  pursuits.  She  was,  at  the  time  of  her  de- 
cease, engaged  in  reviewing  her  early  opinions  on  litera- 
ture, and  her  early  productions,  pointing  out,  and  acknowl- 
edging her  errors  and  deficiencies,  with  the  most  frank 
honesty,  and  preparing  by  study  and  reflection  to  make  her 
genius  the  faithful  interpreter  of  nature  and  the  human  heart. 
What  she  has  written  is  marked  by  ease,  grace,  and  that 
intuitive  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  good,  which  shows 
that  her  imagination  was  a  blessing  to  herself,  as  well  as 
a  pleasure  to  others.  Her  thoughts,  as  they  flowed  out  in 
her  poetry,  have  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  the  tones 
of  distant  music ;  —  we  yield  to  the  spell  and  treasure  the 
remembrance  as  a  pleasant  emotion.  Though  it  may  not 
have  made  us  wiser,  it  can  beguile  us  of  care. — And  with 
the  refinement  of  taste  and  warmth  of  affections  which 
Mrs.  Smith  possessed,  was  united,  pure,  ardent  and  unaf- 
fected piety.  The  hope  of  immortality  was  to  her  a  glori- 
ous hope ;  and  the  benevolence  which  the  Gospel  inculcates, 
was  her  cherishsd  feeling.  Such  was  the  poetess,  who  in 
her  youth  and  loveliness  has  gone  from  among  us.  But  we 
place  her  name  in  our  Wreath — a  "  Forget-me-not,"  which, 

"  Like  purity's  own  halo  light, 
Will  ever  smile  upon  the  sight." 


304  THE  LADIES'  WREATH 


THE  HUNTER'S  BRIDE. 


INDIAN    TRADITION. 

THE  Indian  Hunter  left  his  cot, 

When  the  morning  sun  rode  high, 
With  springing  step,  for  the  distant  spot 

Where  the  fleet  wild  deer  must  die  ; 
And  his  bride,  by  the  low-roofd  cabin  door, 

Singing  some  joyous  lay, 
That  softly  floated  the  blue  hills  o'er, 

As  his  footstep  died  away. 

Pokhawa  —  pride  of  the  red-man's  race, 

Flower  of  her  warlike  tribe ; 
She  had  come,  his  mountain  hearth  to  grace, 

A  soft-eyed,  dusky  bride ; 
With  robe  in  scarlet  berries  prest, 

And  feathers  gaily  green  j 
They  had  robb'd  the  wild  bird  of  his  crest, 

To  deck  their  dark-ey'd  queen. 

Away  —  away,  his  shout  is  heard 

Far  over  the  distant  plain  ; 
But  at  even-fall,  like  the  mountain  bird, 

He  sought  his  home  again. 
The  quick,  light  step  thro'  the  forest  green 

Scarce  echoed  in  the  glen  ; 
And  when  evening's  last  gray  light  was  seen. 

He  stood  where  his  home  had  been. 

But,  alas  for  the  hunter !  the  white  man's  hand 
Had  fearfully  mark'd  the  spot, 


LOUISA   P.   SMITH.  305 

And  left  the  blacken'd  and  smoking  brand. 

In  place  of  the  flower-edged  cot. 
And  where  is  the  "Bird"  of  the  Indian's  nest? 

They  have  borne  her  far  away  ! 
And  the  hopes,  that  the  morning  hour  saw  blest, 

Closed  with  the  closing  day. 

Darkness  is  on  his  brow  — 

Deep  darkness  in  his  soul, 
As  he  sternly  breath'd  the  vengeful  vow, 

And  the  words  in  terror  roll ! 
The  night-wind  heard  and  sigh'd  — 

The  forest  branches  bowM, 
And  'twas  echoed  back  by  the  mountain  tide, 

In  murmurs  hoarse  and  loud  !  — 
The  moon  went  up  —  and  pearly  light 

Was  shed  o'er  hill  and  tree, 
Darkness  should  still  have  veil'd  a  night 

That  such  dark  deeds  must  see. 

A  fair,  young  mother  lull'd  a  child 

To  its  gentle  evening  rest ; 
On  its  last  dim  waking-look  she  smil'd, 

And  its  lip  of  beauty  prest; 
Then  watch'd  for  the  sound  of  a  well-known  tread, 

As  the  still  hours  glided  by : 
But  she  never  met  that  sound  again, 

Or  the  glance  of  that  love-lit  eye. 
The  Indian  Chief  from  his  mountain  home 

Had  cross'd  the  moon-lit  plain, 
And  the  might  of  that  deep  revenge  had  come, 

That  was  never  vow'd  in  vain ! 
26* 


306  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


THE  HUMA. 

"  A  bird  peculiar  to  the  east.    It  is  supposed  to  fly  constantly  in 
the  air,  and  never  touch  the  ground." 

FLY  on !  nor  touch  thy  wing,  bright  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  earth, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on  —  nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of  "care-worn  things ;  " 
'Twould  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest 

And  thy  brightly  burnish'd  wings, 
To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free  : 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine, 

Above  life's  stormy  sea. 
I  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again, 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free  — 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  they  are  bound  and  fetter'd  here, 
Forever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird, 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay  j 
Our  air  is  with  them  forever  stirr'd, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 

Is  ever  hovering  o'er, 


LOUISA   P.    SMITH.  307 

But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun, 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore, 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings, 
Where  the  fount  of  "  living  waters  "  springs. 


THE  HEART'S  TREASURES. 

KNOW  ye  what  things  the  heart  holds  dear 

In  its  hidden  cells? 

'Tis  never  the  beam  of  careless  smiles, 
Nor  riches  wafted  from  far-off  isles  j 
The  light  that  cheers  it  is  never  shed 
From  the  jewell'd  pomp  of  a  regal  head. 

Not  there  it  dwells. 

Gay  things,  the  loved  of  worldly  eyes 

Enchain  it  not ; 

It  suns  its  blossoms  in  fairer  skies, 
The  dewy  beam  of  affection's  eyes; 
The  spell  is  there  that  can  hold  it  fast, 
When  earthly  pride  in  its  pomp  is  past, 

And  all  forgot. 

Thoughts  that  come  from  their  far,  dim  rest, 

Woke  by  a  smile  — 
The  memory  sweet  of  a  youthful  hour, 
The  faded  hue  of  a  cherished  flower, 
Or  parting  tones  of  a  far  off  friend, 
It  loves  in  melody  soft  to  blend 

With  him  the  while. 

Know  ye  what  things  the  heart  holds  dear? 
Its  buried  loves ! 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Those  that  have  wrung  from  it  many  a  tear, 
Gone  where  the  leaves  never  fall  or  sear, 
Gone  to  the  land  that  is  sought  in  prayer, 
The  trace  of  whose  step  is  fairest,  where 
Fond  memory  roves. 

The  sound  of  music  at  even-fall, 

Filling  its  springs 

With  a  flow  of  thought,  and  feeling  sweet 
As  summer  winds,  when  at  eve  they  meet, 
And  lips  that  are  loved,  breathe  forth  the  song, 
When,  day  with  its  troubled  sounds  is  gone  — 

To  these  it  clings. 

And  nature's  pleasant  murmurings, 

So  sweet  to  hear ; 

Her  bowers  of  beauty,  and  soft-shed  gleams 
Of  light  and  shadow  on  forest  streams, 
Her  mossy  rocks  and  places  rude, 
The  charm  of  her  breathing  solitude  — 

These  it  holds  dear. 


THE   STRANGER. 

IT  was  a  face  where  you  would  seek  in  vain  for  thoughts  of 

rest, 
For  something  said  that  many  hopes  had  been  thro'  life 

unblest ; 

Yet  lingered  beauty's  brilliancy  around  her  youthful  form  — 
As  rainbows  linger  brightly  o'er,  at  close   of  summer's 

storm. 


LOUISA   P.   SMITH.  309 

There  was  repose,  deep,  still  repose,  like  that  when  day  is 

o'er, 
And  the  sun  sends  down  his  last  lone  look  upon  a  sleeping 

shore  — 
Yet  there  was  nothing  calm,  to  still  the  breast  of  him  who 

gazed, 
Whose  troubled  feelings  by  that  look  of  quiet  grief  were 

raised. 

The  spirits  beauty  met  you  there,  in  every  line  and  shade, 

The  light  that  sorrow  touches  not  when  the  rosier  blos- 
som's fade : 

But  there  dwelt  not  with  her,  sparkling  looks,  such  as  the 
careless  know ; 

The  very  smiles  in  their  sweetness  told,  life's  cup  had 
been  of  woe. 

Clouds   pass   the   moon,  nor  leave  their  trace  upon  her 

silvery  brow, 
And  stars  that  have  been  veiled  in  stormsr  shine  on  as 

brightly  now: 
The  ocean  leaves  no  shade  of  wrath  upon  the  peaceful 

shore, 
But  the  fragile  reed  of  human  joy,  once  broken,  blooms  no 

more. 

You  knew  that  suffering  had  been  there ;  too  oft  it  leaves 

its  trace, 
To  dim  the  glorious  brightness  breathed  around  the  human 

face: 
But  there  it  left  what  lovelier  made  the  face  whereon  it 

shone, 
And  if  hearts  might  worship  aught  of  earth,  that  were  an 

altar-stone. 

There's  something  holy  in  a  heart  so  beautifully  lone, 
That  wanders  on  its  shadow'd  path,  nor  asks  one  soothing 
tone, 


310  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 

And  only  tells  in  looks,  that  shade  has  been  its  outline 

here, 
That  one  by  one  the  blossoms  went,  it  had  been  joy  to  rear. 

She  was  a  stranger — home,  with  all  its  pleasant  lights  was 
far, 

The  deep,  dark  waters  roll'd  between  her  and  that  "  guid- 
ing star;" 

Wild  flowers  were  lying  on  the  grave  of  one  who  held  her 
dear, 

And  little  thought  to  leave  her  thus,  a  lonely  "pilgrim 
here." 

I've  heard  her  sing  of  a  far  home,  and  seen  the  tear-drops 

fall 

At  thousand  images  of  love,  memory  would  fain  recall, 
In  all  their  loveliness  of  hue,  but  to  plant  a  deeper  thorn 
In  a  bosom,  which  a  fearful  weight  of  worldly  ill  had 

borne. 

'Tis  a  lonely  sight  to  view  the  things  in  Heaven's  own 

image  made; 
Fading  thus  early  'neath  the  blight  of  sorrow's  earthly 

shade, 
To  see  the  brightness  and  the  bloom  of  the  human  brow 

o'ercast ; 
And  know  that  such  things  still  must  be,  till  love  and  death 

are  past. 


LOUISA  P.  SMITH.  311 


TRUST  IN  HEAVEN. 

1  For  He  hath  said,  I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee.' 

YES,  He  hath  said,  whose  word  hath  power. 

Nor  may  His  children  fear 
The  clouds  that  on  their  pathway  lower, 

With  this  high  promise  near. 

When  He,  whose  arm  sends  o'er  the  deep 

The  shades  of  falling  night, 
And  calls  the  morning  sun  to  steep 

The  isles  of  earth  in  light, 

Is  o'er  their  path,  and  guarding  still 

Those  whom  He  knows  are  frail ; 
When  gathering  clouds  of  worldly  ill, 

Cause  human  strength  to  fail. 

The  spirit  hath  a  chord  that  clings 

To  lights  that  must  grow  dim, 
And  places  trust  in  fragile  things, 

That  should  be  placed  on  Him. 

But  when  that  hold  is  sever'd — then, 

In  sorrow's  hour  of  night  — 
When  the  plant  has  lost  its  earthly  stem, 

He  sends  His  own  clear  light. 

And  in  those  words  of  truth  and  power 

Is  the  sacred  promise  given ; 
Which  has  lifted  many  a  drooping  flower 

To  the  still  clear  air  of  heaven. 


312  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


STANZAS. 

I  WOULD  not  have  thee  deem  my  heart 

Unmindful  of  those  higher  joys, 
Regardless  of  that  better  part 

Which  earthly  passion  ne'er  alloys. 
I  would  not  have  thee  think  I  live 

Within  heaven's  pure  and  blessed  light, 
Nor  feeling,  nor  affection  give 

To  Him  who  makes  my  pathway  bright. 

I  would  not  chain  to  mystic  creeds 

A  spirit  fetterless  and  free  ; 
The  beauteous  path  to  heaven  that  leads 

Is  dimm'd  by  earthly  bigotry  : 
And  yet,  for  all  that  earth  can  give, 

And  all  it  e'er  can  take  away, 
I  would  not  have  that  spirit  rove 

One  moment  from  its  heavenward  way. 

I  would  not  that  my  heart  were  cold 

And  void  of  gratitude  to  Him, 
Who  makes  those  blessings  to  unfold, 

Which  by  our  waywardness  grow  dim. 
I  would  not  lose  the  cherished  trust 

Of  things  within  the  world  to  come, — 
The  thoughts,  that  when  their  joys  are  dust, 

The  weary  have  a  peaceful  home. 

For  I  have  left  the  dearly  lov'd, 
The  home,  the  hopes  of  other  years, 

And  early  in  its  pathway  prov'd 
Life's  rainbow  hues  were  formed  of  tears. 


LOUISA  P.  SMITH.  313 

I  shall  not  meet  them  here  again, 

Those  lov'd  and  lost,  and  cherish'd  ones, 

Bright  links  in  young  affection's  chain, 
In  memory's  sky  unsetting  suns. 

But  perfect  in  the  world  above, 

Through  suffering,  wo,  and  trial  here, 
Shall  glow  the  undiminished  love 

Which  clouds  and  distance  failed  to  sere  ; 
But  I  have  lingered  all  too  long, 

Thy  kind  remembrance  to  engage, 
And  woven  but  a  mournful  song, 

Wherewith  to  dim  thy  page. 


I  WOULD  NEVER  KNEEL. 

I  WOULD  never  kneel  at  a  gilded  shrine 

To  worship  the  idol-gold, 
I  would  never  fetter  this  heart  of  mine 

As  a  thing  for  fortune  sold. 
There  are  haughty  steps,  that  would  walk  the  globe, 

O'er  necks  of  humbler  ones, 
I  would  scorn  to  bow  to  their  jewell'd  robe, 

Or  the  beam  of  their  coin-lit  suns. 
But  I'd  bow  to  the  light  that  God  has  given, 

The  nobler  light  of  mind, 
The  only  light  save  that  of  Heav'n 

That  should  free-will  homage  find. 
27 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON* 


THE  premature  death  of  Miss  Davidson  is  another  warn- 
ing to  those  who  are  rejoicing  in  the  bright  promise  of  early 
genius,  how  soon  the  frost  may  wither  their  hopes.  Like 
the  "Flower-of-an-hour"  was  her  brief  blossoming;  and 
though  the  memorials  of  her  extraordinary  talents  remain, 
yet  we  feel  these  are  very  inadequate  to  convey  the  im- 
pression which  her  living  presence  must  have  excited. — 
Who  can  imagine  truly  what  the  fruit  would  have  been  by 
merely  examining  a  petal  from  the  half-opened  bud  ? 

Lucretia  Maria,  second  daughter  of  Dr.  Oliver  and  Mar- 
garet Davidson,  was  born  at  Plattsburgh,  on  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  Sept.  27th,  1808.  Her  parents  were  then  in  indigent 
circumstances,  and  to  add  to  their  troubles,  her  mother  was 
often  sickly.  Under  such  circumstances,  the  little  Lucretia 
would  not  be  likely  to  owe  her  precocity  to  a  forced  edu- 
cation. The  manifestations  of  intellectual  activity  were 
apparent  in  the  infant,  we  may  say ;  for  at  four  years  old 
she  would  retire  by  herself  to  pore  over  her  books,  and 
draw  pictures  of  animals,  and  soon  illustrated  these  rude 
drawings  by  poetry.  Her  first  specimens  of  writing  were 

*  A  selection  from  her  MS.  was  made  after  her  decease,  and  a 
volume  published— "Amir  Khan  and  other  Poems"— with  a 
"  Biographical  Sketch."  By  Samuel  F.  B.  Morse. 


LUCRETIA   DAVIDSON.  315 

imitations  of  printed  letters,  but  she  was  very  much  dis- 
tressed when  these  were  discovered,  and  immediately  de- 
stroyed them. 

The  first  poem  of  hers  which  has  been  preserved,  was 
written  when  she  was  nine  years  old.  —  It  was  an  elegy 
on  a  Robin,  killed  in  the  attempt  to  rear  it.  —  This  piece 
was  not  inserted  in  her  works.  The  earliest  of  her  poems 
which  has  been  printed  was  written  at  eleven  years  old. — 
Her  parents  were  much  gratified  by  her  talents,  and  gave 
her  all  the  indulgence  in  their  power,  which  was  only  time 
for  reading  such  books  as  she  could  obtain  by  borrowing ; 
as  they  could  afford  no  money  to  buy  books,  or  to  pay  for 
her  instruction.  Before  she  was  twelve  years  old,  she  had 
read  most  of  the  standard  English  poets  —  much  of  His- 
tory, both  sacred  and  profane  —  Shakspeare's  Kotzebue's 
and  Goldsmith's  dramatic  works,  and  many  of  the  popular 
novels  and  romances  of  the  day.  Of  the  latter,  however, 
she  was  not  an  indiscriminate  reader  —  many  of  those 
weak  and  worthless  productions,  which  are  the  elite  of  the 
circulating  libraries,  this  child,  after  reading  a  few  pages, 
would  throw  aside  in  disgust.  Would  that  all  young 
ladies  possessed  her  delicate  taste  and  discriminating 
judgment ! 

When  Lucretia  was  about  twelve  years  old,  a  gentleman, 
who  had  heard  of  her  genius  and  seen  some  of  her  verses, 
sent  her  a  complimentary  note,  enclosing  twenty  dollars. 
Her  first  exclamation  was  —  "  Oh,  now  I  shall  buy  me  some 
books!"  —  But  her  dear  mother  was  lying  ill  —  the  little 
girl  looked  towards  the  sick  bed  —  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes, 
and  putting  the  bill  into  her  father's  hand,  she  said  — 
"Tajte  it,  father;  it  will  buy  many  comforts  for  mother; 
I  can  do  without  books." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  her  parents  should  feel  the  deepest 
affection  for  such  a  good  and  gifted  child.  Yet  there  will 
always  be  found  officious,  meddling  persons,  narrow-mind- 
ed, if  not  envious,  who  are  always  prophesying  evil  on  any 


316  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

pursuits  in  which  they  or  their's  cannot  compete.  These 
meddlers  advised  that  she  should  be  deprived  of  pen,  ink. 
and  paper,  and  rigorously  confined  to  domestic  pursuits. 
Her  parents  were  too  kind  and  wise  to  follow  this  coun- 
sel ;  but  Lucretia,  by  some  means,  learned  that  such  had 
been  given.  Without  a  murmur  she  resolved  to  submit  to 
this  trial;  and  she  faithfully  adhered  to  the  resolution. 
She  told  no  one  of  her  intention  or  feelings,  but  gave  up 
her  writing  and  reading,  and  for  several  months  devoted 
herself  entirely  to  household  business.  Her  mother  was 
ill  at  the  time,  and  did  not  notice  the  change  in  Lucretia's 
pursuits,  till  she  saw  the  poor  ijirl  was  growing  emaciated, 
and  a  deep  dejection  was  settled  on  her  countenance ;  — 
She  said  to  her  one  day,  —  "Lucretia  —  it  is  a  longtime 
since  you  have  written  any  thing."  —  The  sweet  child 
burst  into  tears,  and  replied — "O  mother,  I  have  given 
that  up  long  ago."  Her  mother  then  drew  from  her  the 
reasons  which  had  influenced  her  to  relinquish  writing  — 
namely,  the  opinions  she  had  heard  expressed  that  it  was 
wrong  for  her  to  indulge  in  mental  pursuits,  and  the  feeling 
that  she  ought  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  lighten  the  cares 
of  her  parents.  —  Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  good,  sensible  wo- 
man ;  with  equal  discretion  and  tenderness  she  counselled 
her  daughter  to  take  a  middle  course,  resume  her  studies, 
but  divide  her  time  between  these  darling  pursuits  and  the 
duties  of  the  household.  Lucretia  from  thenceforth  occa- 
sionally resumed  her  pen,  and  soon  regained  her  quiet 
serenity  and  usual  health. 

Her  love  of  knowledge  grew  with  her  growth,  and 
strengthened  by  every  accession  of  thought.  "  Oh ! "  said 
she  one  day  to  her  mother — ''Oh!  that  I  only  possessed 
half  the  means  for  improvement  which  I  see  others  slight- 
ing !  I  should  be  the  happiest  of  the  happy  !  "  —  At  another 
time  she  exclaimed  —  "  How  much  there  is  yet  to  learn ! 
—  If  I  could  only  grasp  it  at  once !  " 

This  passionate  desire  for  instruction   was  at  length 


LUCRETIA   DAVIDSON.  317 

gratified.  When  she  was  about  sixteen,  a  gentleman,  a 
stranger  at  Plattsburgh,  saw,  by  accident,  some  of  her 
poems,  and  learned  her  history.  With  the  prompt  and 
warm  generosity  of  a  noble  mind,  he  immediately  proposed 
to  place  her  at  school,  and  give  her  every  advantage  for 
which  she  had  so  ardently  longed.  Her  joy  on  learning 
this  good  fortune  was  almost  overwhelming.  She  was,  as 
soon  as  possible,  placed  at  the  Troy  Female  Seminary, 
then,  as  now  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Emma  Willard.  She 
was  there  at  the  fountain  for  which  she  had  so  long  thirst- 
ed, and  her  spiritual  eagerness  could  not  be  restrained. 
"On  her  entering  the  Seminary,"  says  the  Principal,  "she 
at  once  surprised  us  by  the  brilliancy  and  pathos  of  her 
compositions  —  she  evinced  a  most  exquisite  sense  of  the 
beautiful  in  the  productions  of  her  pencil;  always  giving 
to  whatever  she  attempted  to  copy,  certain  peculiar  and 
original  touches  which  marked  the  liveliness  of  her  con- 
ceptions, and  the  power  of  her  genius  to  embody  those  con- 
ceptions.—  But  from  studies  which  required  calm  and 
steady  investigation,  efforts  of  memory,  judgment  and  con- 
secutive thinking,  her  mind  seemed  to  shrink.  She  had 
no  confidence  in  herself,  and  appeared  to  regard  with  dis- 
may any  requisitions  of  this  nature."  —  In  truth,  she  had 
so  long  indulged  in  solitary  musings,  and  her  sensibility 
had  become  so  exquisite,  heightened  and  refined  as  it  had 
been  by  her  vivid  imagination,  that  she  was  dismayed,  ag- 
onized, even,  with  the  feeling  of  responsibility,  which  her 
public  examination  involved.  —  She  was  greatly  beloved 
and  tenderly  cherished  by  her  teachers ;  but  it  is  probable 
that  the  excitement  of  the  new  situation  in  which  she  was 
placed,  and  the  new  studies  she  had  to  pursue,  operated 
fatally  on  her  constitution.  —  She  was,  during  the  vacationj 
taken  with  an  illness,  which  left  her  feeble  and  very  ner- 
vous. When  she  recovered  she  was  placed  at  Albany,  at 
the  school  of  Miss  Gilbert  —  but  there  she  was  soon  attack- 
ed by  severe  disease.  She  partially  recovered,  and  was 
27* 


318  THE    LADIES'   WREATH. 

removed  to  her  home,  where  she  gradually  declined  till 
death  released  her  pure  and  exalted  mind  from  its  prison- 
house  of  clay.  She  died  August  27th,  1825— before  she 
had  completed  her  seventeenth  year.  In  person  she  was 
exceedingly  beautiful.  Her  forehead  was  high,  open  and 
fair  as  infancy  —  her  eyes  large,  dark,  and  of  that  soft 
beaming  expression  which  shows  the  soul  in  the  glance  — 
her  features  were  fine  and  symmetrical,  and  her  complex- 
ion brilliant,  especially  when  the  least  excitement  moved 
her  feelings.  But  the  prevailing  expression  of  her  face 
was  melancholy.  Her  beauty,  as  well  as  her  mental  en- 
dowments, made  her  the  object  of  much  regard ;  but  she 
shrunk  from  observation  —  any  particular  attention  always 
seemed  to  give  her  pain;  so  exquisite  wa>  her  modesty. 
In  truth,  her  soul  was  too  delicate  for  this  "cold  world  ol 
storms  and  clouds."  Her  imagination  never  revelled  in 
the  "gairishness  of  joy:"  —  a  pensive,  meditative  mood 
was  the  natural  tone  of  her  mind.  The  adverse  circum- 
stances by  which  she  was  surrounded,  no  doubt  deepened 
this  seriousness,  till  it  became  almost  morbid  melancholy 
— but  no  external  advantages  of  fortune  would  have  given 
to  her  disposition  the  buoyant  cheerfulness  which  charac- 
terized Louisa  P.  Smith.  In  their  genius  and  its  precocity 
of  development  there  is  a  great  similarity  ;  in  their  consti- 
tutional temperaments  they  were  utterly  unlike  —  and  this 
made  the  one  L' Allegro,  the  other  //' Pe.nseroso  in  thought. 
The  writings  of  Miss  Davidson  were  astonishingly  vol- 
uminoua.  —  She  had  destroyed  many  of  her  poems,  her 
mother  says,  at  least  one-third  —  yet  those  remaining 
amount  to  two  hundred  and  seventy- eight  pieces.  There 
are  among  them  five  regular  poems  of  several  cantos  each, 
twenty-four  school  exercises,  three  unfinished  romances,  a 
complete  tragedy,  written  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  and 
about  forty  letters,  to  her  mother.  Her  poetry  is  marked  by 
strong  imaginative  powers,  and  the  sentiment  of  sad  fore- 
bodings.—  These  dark  visions,  though  they  tinged  all  her 


LUCRETIA  DAVIDSON.  319 

earthly  horizon,  were  not  permitted  to  cloud  her  hope  of 
heaven.  She  died  calmly,  relying  on  the  merits  of  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  for  salvation.  The  last  word  she  spoke 
was  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  had  so  kindly  assisted 
her.  And  if  his  name  were  known,  often  would  it  be  spoken, 
for  his  generosity  to  this  humble,  but  highly  gifted  daugh- 
ter of  song,  will  make  his  deed  of  charily  a  sacred  remem- 
brance to  all  who  love  genius,  and  sympathise  with  the 
suffering. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

AND  thou  hast  marked  in  childhood's  hour 
The  fearless  boundings  of  my  breast, 

When  fresh  as  summer's  opening  flower, 
I  freely  frolick'd  andwas  blest. 

Oh  say,   tvas  not  this  eye  more  bright  ? 

Were  not  these  lips  more  wont  to  smile  ? 
Methinks  that  then  my  heart  was  light, 

And  I  a  fearless,  joyous  child. 

And  thou  didst  mark  me  gay  and  wild, 
My  careless,  reckless  laugh  of  mirth ; 

The  simple  pleasures  of  a  child, 
The  holiday  of  man  on  earth. 

Then  thou  hast  seen  me  in  that  hour, 
Wnen  every  nerve  of  life  was  new, 

When  pleasures  fann'd  youth's  infant  flower, 
And  Hope  her  witcheries  round  it  threw. 

That  hour  is  fading;  it  hath  fled; 

And  I  am  left  in  darkness  now, 
A  wand'rer  towards  a  lowly  bed, 

The  grave,  that  home  of  all  below. 


320  THE   LADIES    WREATH. 


THE   GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

To  Miss  E.  C.— Composed  on  a  blank  leaf  of  her  Paley,  during 
recitation 

I'M  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid,  and  I  rest 
In  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast ; 
At  midnight  I  steal  from  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses  flow 
In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow, 

0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul, 
My  tempest  the  clouds,  which  around  thee  may  roll ; 

1  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fount  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me; 

There  are  some  which,  half-breathed,  half-acknowledged 

by  thee, 

Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruffling  its  calmness,  then  murm'ring  to  rest. 

Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With  its  own  mimic  mountains,  and  star-spangled  skies, 
I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  when  sleeping, 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  ihy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night; 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie, 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy, 


LUCRETIA   DAVIDSON.  321 

My  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 
My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 
Farewell !  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled, 
And  the  young  rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round  my 
head. 


TO  A  STAR. 

THOU  brightly  glittering  STAR  of  EVEN  — 

Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  heaven  ! 

Oh !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 

How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee  ! 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine  ; 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  may'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed  —  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  heaven's  refulgent  lights ; 
There,  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  Star  of  Even  — 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven! 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free ! 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH 


FEATS  OF  DEATH. 

I  HAVE  passed  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night ; 
I  have  walked  the  wild  winds  in  the  morning's  broad  light ; 
I  have  paused  o'er  the  bower  whjere  the  infant  lay  sleeping, 
And  I've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 
Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
And  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low : 
I  cull'd  the  fair  bud,  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

paused  o'er  the  valley,  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  and  ascended  on  high  ; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth; 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave, 
I  stop  not  to  pity  —  I  stay  not  to  save. 

I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there  ; 
It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair ! 
The  deep  purple  fountain  seemed  melting  away, 
And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remembered  to  play : 
She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me, 
I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and  her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  rolled  gladly,  and  bounded  along, 
With  ripple,  and  murmur,  and  sparkle,  and  song ; 


LUCRETIA    DAVIDSON.  323 

The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 
And  sweet,  and  half-sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 

I  passed,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung ; 

O'er  the  stream  which  rolled  deeply,  'twas  recklessly  hung ; 

The  minstrel  was  not !  and  I  passed  on  alone, 

O'er  the  newly-raised  turf,  and  the  rudely-carved  stone. 


STANZAS. 

Addressed  to  her  Sister,  requesting  her  to  sing  "  Moore's  Fare- 
well to  his  Harp." 

WHEN  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven  ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye ; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie  ;  — 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give, 

Oh,  sister  !  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And,  hovering,  trembles  half  afraid, 

Oh,  sister !  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 


324  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

'T  were  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 
Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day; 

Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When,  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Should'st  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 


FRAGMENT.* 

THERE  is  a  something  which  I  dread, — 

It  is  a  dark  a  fearful  thing  ; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness  or  of  sadness  ; 

'T  is  not  the  dread  of  death  —  't  is  more, 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness ! 

Oh !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 
Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course; 

May  this  hot  brain,  which  burning  glows 
With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal  — 


*  These  lines  are  the  last  she  ever  wrote ;  they  were  left  thus  un- 
finished. 


FRANCES   SARGENT   OSGOOD. 


MRS.  Osgood,  formerly  Miss  Locke,  has  only  been  known 
lo  the  public  as  a  writer,  by  her  signature  of  "  Florence." 
The  beauty  and  merit  of  her  poetry,  however,  fully  entitle 
her  to  a  place  in  our  Wreath.  Her  genius,  like  the  sweet 
"  Lily  of  the  Valley,"  sung  by  Percival,  has  found  a  "  green 
spot,"  in  which  to  bloom  in  the  midst  of  life's  busy  throng. — 

"  The  din  of  the  city  disturb'd  it  not, 
For  the  spirit  that  shades  the  quiet  cot, 
With  its  wings  of  love  was  there." 

Frances  Locke  is  sister,  by  the  maternal  side,  of  Anna 
Maria  Wells  :  she  was  born  in  Boston,  where  she  has  con- 
stantly resided,  till  about  a  year  since,  when  she  married 
Mr.  Osgood,  a  young  artist  of  much  promise,  and  imme- 
diately accompanied  her  husband  to  Europe.  They  are 
now  settled  in  London,  where  Mr.  Osgood  has,  we  learn, 
been  very  kindly  encouraged  in  portrait  painting,  (the  branch 
of  art  to  which  he  chiefly  devotes  himself,)  by  many  noble 
and  eminent  patrons.  Mrs.  Osgood  has  also  found  friends, 
as  one  so  amiable  and  gifted  could  hardly  fail  to  do,  who 
are  fostering  her  genius  with  the  "warm  breath"  of  praise, 
so  very  pleasant,  when  given  by  those  we  honor  and  love. 
Several  of  her  articles  have  already  appeared  in  the  London 
periodicals,  and  she  is  receiving  that  attention  from  per- 
28 


326  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

sons  of  taste  and  influence,  which,  we  doubt  not,  will  stim- 
ulate her  to  vigorous  application — all  that  is  wanting  to  in- 
sure her  success  and  celebrity. 

The  first  poems  of  "  Florence  "  were  printed  in  the  "Ju- 
venile Miscellany,"  when  she  could  not  have  been  more 
than  sixteen.  These  early  effusions  were  marked  by  the 
same  warmth  of  fancy  and  elegance  of  expression,  which 
have  distinguished  all  she  has  written.  Since  that  period, 
she  has  contributed  to  several  periodicals,  chiefly  to  the 
American  Ladies'  Magazine,  from  which  the  specimens 
now  given  are  mostly  selected.  Her  poems  have  never 
been  collected,  though  they  would  make  a  volume  very 
creditable  to  one  of  her  age.  It  is,  however,  better  that  she 
should  wait  till  the  changes  of  life  shall  awaken  more  of 
those  strong  sympathies  of  the  soul,  which  vivify  and  ele- 
vate the  genius  of  woman.  As  yet,  she  has  never  affected 
a  lofty  theme  —  but  takes  whatever  the  passing  moment 
suggests;  and  generally  her  heart  turns  to  the  dear,  cher- 
ished affections  of  home  and  friends.  She  is,  moreover,  of 
a  cheerful  temperament,  and  life,  love  and  happiness,  are 
to  her  synonymous  terms.  Hence  the  deepest  tones  of  her 
genius  have  never  yet  beeen  sounded :  it  is  only  actual 
suffering,  that  will  teach  a  sanguine  disposition  that  there 
is  light  in  the  darkness  of  affliction,  and  inspire  the  muse 
to  picture  "  beauty  for  ashes,"  and  describe  the  "joy  of 
grief,"  till  the  soul  feels  its  own  immortality  made  surer, 
calmer,  happier,  holier  from  the  doubts,  tossings,  sorrows, 
and  imperfections  of  this  transitory  world.  This  high 
moral  strain  of  poetry  she  has  as  yet  scarcely  attempted, 
because  her  thoughts  have  never  been  turned,  by  her  own 
feelings,  to  such  subjects. 

She  writes  from  her  feelings,  and  her  common  mood  of 
mind  is  poetical ;  hence  there  is  a  naturalness  and  simple 
grace  in  her  metaphors  and  diction  which  are  original  and 
very  pleasing.  She  composes  with  great  rapidity,  bestow- 
ing, apparently,  no  more  effort  on  a  poem,  than  though  she 


FLORENCE.  327 

were  scribbling  prose.  This  remarkable  command  of  lan- 
guage, united,  as  it  is,  with  clear  ideas,  vivid  imagination, 
and  an  intuitive  feeling  of  the  harmonious,  mark  her  as 
one  destined,  if  her  life  is  prolonged,  to  occupy  a  bright 
place  in  our  literature.  She  is  still  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
and  has  scarcely  begun  to  appreciate  her  own  powers,  or  to 
cultivate  them  by  careful  study  and  critical  revision. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

"  I  thought  it  slept." 

MY  brow  was  burning  for  holier  air, 

The  blessed  mountain  breeze ; 
My  heart  was  away,  in  the  valleys  fair, 

With  the  woodland  streams  and  trees ; 
And  1  longed  to  be  in  a  tranquil  spot, 

Shaded  and  pleasant  and  still, 
Where,  alone  with  the  flowers,  and  noticed  not, 

I  could  follow  my  wayward  will : 
And  so,  in  sadness,  I  went  away, 

From  the  city's  peopled  street, 
And  I  found  the  sunlight  and  stream,  at  play, 

Where  the  breathing  blossoms  meet 

Soft  as  the  spirit's  parting  smile, 
Lighting  some  young,  blue  eye  to  death  ; 

Bright  as  that  spirit's  pinions  while 
They  rise  upon  the  expiring  breath, 

And  leave  their  radiance  trembling  there, 

On  lip  and  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 

Our  sungod  sends  his  farewell  ray, 

Sweet  Wilda !  where  thy  waters  play ! 


328  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

And,  while  his  glittering  wings  unclose, 

In  glory  o'er  thy  calm  repose, 

One  pitying  moment  rests  above, 

To  light  thee  with  his  glance  of  love; 

Then,  soft  receding,  floats  in  light, 

Away,  beyond  the  mountain  height. 

I  found  the  stream  —  the  woodland  stream  — 

I  lingered  by  its  golden  gleam, 

While  softly,  in  the  luminous  air, 

The  dream-like  clouds  were  floating  fair, 

And  all  serene  as  seraph's  eye, 

The  waters  went  in  beauty  by. 

I  laid  me  on  the  pleasant  green,  — 

The  graceful  slope  that  bends  between, 

In  one  sweet  sunny  nook  of  love, 

The  fir-trees  of  the  darkling  grove. 

Oh !  'tis  a  gem,  that  lone  retreat ! 

A  fairy  gift,  by  nature  wrought, 
To  lay  at  laughing  summer's  feet, — 

An  emerald  with  her  bright  smile  fraught,  - 
An  emerald,  set  in  sapphire  light, 
And  hidden  in  the  woods  from  sight ! 
Fair  summer  hung  her  prize,  above, 
And  lent  it  light,  from  looks  of  love, 
And  press'd  it  with  her  fondling  hand, 
And  bless'd  it  with  her  breezes  bland, 
Till,  smiling  back  that  radiant  gaze, 
The  wave  its  fairy  music  plays, 
And  gaily,  from  the  grove,  are  heard 
The  warblings  of  the  woodland  bird. 
At  times  she  weeps  her  softest  tears, 

When  dim  decay  is  near  her  treasure ; 
And  then,  again,  in  joy  appears, 

Her  fond  and  sunlight  smile  of  pleasure  ^ 


FLORENCE.  329 

While  born  in  beauty  'neath  her  eyes. 
And  wreathed  around,  on  shrub  and  tree. 

She  sees  her  forest-blossoms  rise, 
And  lists  her  forest-melody. 

A  lonely  cottage  rises  there, 

Against  the  trees  in  fair  relief ; 
Its  smoke  is  blending  with  the  air, 

As  melts  in  joy,  the  cloud  of  grief: 
Behind,  the  shadowy  elms  wave  o'er  it, 
And  all  sweet  flowers  are  bright  before  it. 
I  wander'd  to  the  garden's  gate, 
And  thought  at  first  'twas  desolate; 
But  there  half  hid,  with  eyelids  closed, 
A  sweet  unconscious  child  reposed,  — 
A  fairy  girl,  —  her  soft  brown  hair 
Lay  floating  from  her  forehead  fair, 
Among  the  flowers,  that  in  her  play, 
She'd  careless  thrown  around  her  there  ; 
Some  on  her  white  dress  blooming  lay  ; 
Some  in  her  tresses,  and  a  few 
Crush'd  buds  of  blushing,  rosy  hue, 
Within  her  little  hand  were  press'd. 
I  thought  the  fair  thing  was  at  rest, 
And  almost  feared  her  sleep  to  break, 
I  thought  to  see  her  start  and  wake, 
And  lift  to  me,  in  wild  surprise, 
The  sweet  blue  light  of  laughing  eyes  :  — 
Ah  no  !  tho'  close  I  went  to  her, 
Those  soft-veined  eyelids  did  not  stir! 
But  offering, — with  a  motion  glad, 

And  smile  of  gay  dreams  telling, 
As  in  deep  sleep,—  her  rosebuds  bright,  — 
In  accents,  —  Oh!  so  sweetly  sad, 
They  mock'd  her  smile's  unclouded  light  — 
—  She  said,—  «  What  are  they,  Ellen  ?  " 
28* 


330  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

I  knelt  beside  the  gentle  child, 
And  wondered  at  that  slumber  mild. 
"It  is  not  Ellen,"  —  whisperM  1. 
She  did  not  start, — she  did  not  cry ; 
She  put  her  soft  hand  on  my  face, 
With  all  a  child's  unconscious  grace, 
And  slowly  moved  it,  as  if  thought, 
Deeply,  within  her  dreaming  wrought. 
I  spoke,  —  I  thought  to  win  the  while 
Her  eyes  to  see  my  soothing  smile ; 
Ah  !  still  those  lashes  met  the  cheek ! 
Still  closed  her  lids  in  slumber  meek. 
"  Have  you  ne'er  seen*  rose  before?'*  — 
—  A  shadow  fell  her  forehead  o'er,  — 

She  lifted  her  soft  face  to  me, 
While  tears  from  those  shut  eyelids  came, 
And  half  in  sweetness,  half  in  blame, 

She  said  —  "  /  cannot  see ! " 


MY  MOTHER'S  SIGH. 

I'VE  felt  it  oft  in  childhood's  hour  — 

The  magic  of  a  mother's  sigh: 
I've  yielded  to  its  gentle  pov 

With  heart  subdued,  and  drooping  eye. 

When  full  of  glee,  a  wayward  child, 
I've  stolen  from  my  task  away, 

That  sound  amid  the  frolic  wild 
Would  rouse  and  check  my  careless  play. 

I've  read,  with  rapt  and  earnest  look, 
O'er  pages  filled  with  wild  romance,  — 


FLORENCE.  331 

My  mother  sighed !  —  I  closed  the  book, 
And  broke  at  once  the  idle  trance. 

If  passion  flushed  my  youthful  cheek, 
And  pride  and  gloom  were  on  my  brow, 

When  others'  frowns  were  vain  and  weak, 
Her  sigh  could  bid  my  spirit  bow. 

If,  checked  in  Folly's  wayward  whim, 
I've  turned  away  with  laughing  eyes,  — • 

My  mother's  sigh  that  smile  could  dim, 
And  tears,  repentant  tears,  would  rise.  — 

My  dream  has  fled  —  and  wearying  care 
Has  silenced  Folly's  childish  strain ; 

The  thoughtless  mirth  that  revelled  there 
May  never,  never  come  again  ! 

But  still  I  feel  that  holy  power, 

It  thrills  my  heart  and  fills  my  eye 
With  tears,  as  when,  in  "  childhood's  hour," 

I  yielded  to  my  mother's  sigh. 


STANZAS. 

WHEN  the  warm  blessed  spirit  that  lightens  the  sky, 
Hath  darkened  his  glory,  and  furled  up  his  wing, 

And  nature  forgets  the  sweet  smile,  that  her  eye 
Was  wont  on  that  radiant  spirit  to  fling,  — 

I  turn  from  the  world  without,  calm  and  content, 
And  find  in  my  own  heart  a  day-dream  as  bright; 

And  dearer,  far  dearer  than  that  which  is  lent 
To  illumine  creation  with  glory  and  light. 


332  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

There's  a  thought  in  that  heart  it  can  never  forget  — 
There's  a  ray  in  that  heart  that  will  lighten  my  doom  ; 

Through  many  a  sorrow  they  linger  there  yet, 
And,  holy  and  beautiful,  smile  through  the  gloom. 

But  they  say  that  the  garland  Affection  is  wreathing, 
Will  fade  ere  the  morrow  has  wakened  its  bloom  — 

They  say  the  wild  blossoms  where  young  Hope  is  breathing, 
Their  beauty,  their  fragrance  are  all  for  the  tomb. 

They  tell  me  the  vision  of  Bliss  that  is  "glinting," 
My  heart's  star  of  promise  in  gloom  will  decline  ; 

And  the  far  scene  that  Fancy,  the  fairy,  is  tinting, 
Will  lose  all  its  sunny  glow  ere  it  is  mine. 

Oh !  if  Love  and  Life  be  but  a  fairy  illusion, 
And  the  cold  future  bright  but  in  Fancy's  young  eye, 

Still,  still  let  me  live  in  the  dreamy  illusion, 
And,  true  and  unchanging,  hope  on  till  I  die ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

I  WOULD  not  tell  thee,  for  the  world, 
Thy  early  love  will  change  ; 

I  would  not  see  thy  sweet  lip  curled 
In  scorn  of  words  so  strange. 

I  would  not  bid  thy  smiles  away, 
Nor  quell  that  speaking  blush  j 

For  happy  spirits  lend  the  ray, 
And  timid  thoughts  the  flush : 

Yet,  love  is  but  a  dangerous  guest 
For  hearts  so  young  as  thine  ; 


FLORENCE.  333 

Where  youth's  unshadowed  joy  should  rest, 
Life's  spring-time  fancies  shine. 

Too  soon  —  oh!  all  too  soon  —  would  come. 

In  later  years,  the  spell,  — 
Touching,  with  changing  hues,  the  path, 

Where  once  but  sun-light  fell.  — 

Then,  sweetest,  leave  the  wildering  dream, 

Till  Time  has  nerved  thy  heart 
To  brook  the  fitful  cloud  and  gleam, 

Which  must  in  love  have  part.  - 

Ah !  life  has  many  a  blessed  hour, 

That  passion  never  knows ; 
And  youth  may  gather  many  a  flower, 

Beside  the  blushing  rose. 

Turn  to  thy  books,  my  gentle  girl !  — 

They  will  not  dim  thine  eyes  ; 
That  hair  will  all  as  richly  curl. 

That  blush  as  brightly  rise.  — 

Turn  to  thy  friends  !  A  smile  as  fond^ 

On  friendship's  lip  may  be, 
And  breathing  from  a  heart  as  warm 

As  love  can  offer  thee. — 

Turn  to  thy  home  /—Affection  wreathes 

Her  dearest  garland  there  ; 
And  more  than  all,  a  mother  breathes 

For  thee  — -  for  thee,  her  prayer ! 

Ay  I  life  has  many  a  hallowed  hour, 

That  passion  never  knows; 
And  youth  may  often  find  a  flower, 

More  precious  than  the  Rose.* 

*  The  flower  of  Love. 


334  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


LINES 

On  a  picture  of  a  young  girl  weighing  Cupid  and  a  butterfly :  — 
the  winged  boy  rises,  as  he  should,  and  the  motto  beneath  is  "  Love 
is  the  lightest." 

"  LOVE  THE  LIGHTEST  !  " 

SILLY  maiden  !  weigh  them  not ! 

Butterflies  are  earthly  things : 
Thou  forget'st  their  lowly  lot, 

Gazing  on  their  glittering  wings. 

Find  a  star-beam  from  the  sky  — 

Find  a  glow-worm  in  the  grass  — 
Will  the  earth-lamp  rise  on  high  ? 

Will  that  heaven-ray  downward  pass  ? 

Love— ethereal,  holy  love, 
Light,  perchance,  and  proud,  and  free, 

Maiden  —  see  !  it  soars  above 
I i    'Idly  pride  and  vanity ! 

Drooping  to  its  native  earth, 

Sinks  the  gilded  insect-fly  ; 
Love,  of  holier,  heavenlier  birth. 

Rises  towards  his  home  on  high. 

Maiden,  throw  the  scales  away ! 

Never  weigh  poor  Love  again  ! 
Even  the  doubt  has  dimmed  the  ray 

On  his  pinions  with  its  stain  ! 


FLORENCE.  335 


See !  he  lifts  his  wondering  eye, 
Half  reproachfully  to  thee  — 

"  Measured  with  a  butterfly  I " 
Pd  try  my  wings,  if  I  were  he. 


THE  STAR  OF  PROMISE. 

WHEN  kneeling  sages  saw  of  yore 

Their  orb  of  promise  rise  for  them, 
How  Learning's  lamp  grew  dim,  before 

The  heaven-born  Star  of  Bethlehem, — 
How  falter'd  Wisdom's  haughty  tone, 

When,  led  by  God's  exulting  choir, 
His  radiant  herald  glided  on 

The  darkling  heathen's  beacon-fire  ! 

When  sweet,  from  many  an  angel  voice, 

While  rung  the  viewless  harps  of  heaven, 
He  heard  the  song  of  love  —  "  Rejoice, 

For  peace  on  earth  and  sins  forgiven  !  " 
The  Chaldean  flung  his  scroll  aside, 

The  Arab  left  his  desert-tent  — 
Their  hope,  their  trust  —  that  silver  guide  — 

Till  low  at  Mary's  feet  they  bent. 

Ay !  Asia's  wisest  knelt  around, 

Forgetting  Fame's  too  earthly  dream, 
While,  bright  upon  the  hallowed  ground, 

Their  golden  gifts  —  a  mockery  —  gleam. 
There  vainly  too,  their  censers  breathed ; 

Oh!  what  were  incense  —  gems  — to  Him, 
Around  whose  brow  a  glory  wreathed, 

That  made  their  sun-god's  splendor  dim ! 

To  Him  o'er  whose  blest  spirit  came 
The  fragrance  of  celestial  flowers, 


336  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

• 

And  light  from  countless  wings  of  flame 
That  flashed  thro'  heaven's  resplendent  bowers ! — 

To  "kneeling  Faith's"  devoted  eye, 
It  shines  —  that  "  star  of  promise  "  now, 

Fair,  as  when,  far  in  Asia's  sky, 
It  lit  her  sage's  lifted  brow. 

No  sparkling  treasure  we  may  bring, 

Nor  "  gift  of  gold,"  nor  jewel-stone : 
The  censer's  sweets  we  may  not  fling, 

For  incense  round  our  Saviour's  throne : 
But  when,  o'er  sorrow's  clouded  view, 

That  planet  rises  to  our  prayer, 
H  V,  where  it  leads,  may  follow  too, 

And  lay  a  contrite  spirit  there ! 


A  FRAGMENT. 

OH,  do  believe  me,  Julian  !  woman's  heart, — 
A  true,  proud,  loving,  woman's,  ne'er  was  won, 
By  that  must  worthless  bubble,  Flattery. 
Your  thoughtless  words  betray  their  own  light  falsehood, 
For  we  are  very  sure,  when  lips  o'er  praise, 
The  mind  must  undervalue  our  true  worth, 
And  wrong  our  intellect,— deeming  we  try, 
With  child-like  eagerness  and  love,  to  catch 
Your  bribe  for  hearts,  —  your  rainbow-lit  illusion. 
Why,  't  is  a  heartless  insult!  that  doth  call 
For  all  a  woman's  spirit  to  resist!  — 
Now  —  in  our  injured  cause,  —  I  dare  ye  all !  — 
And  fling  our  gauntlet  proudly  at  your  feet;  — 
But  once  o'erstep  Truth's  pure  and  hply  limit, 
And  from  that  hour,  your  eloquence  is  lost  — 
Your  worship  scorned  —  your  sweetest  whispers  vain, 
As  the  fair  eastern  fruit  that  looks  so  rich, 
And  tempts  the  lip,  with  its  bright  nothingness. 


ANNA    PEYRE     DINNIES. 


MRS.  DINNIES,  hitherto  known  as  a  poetess  under  the 
name  of"  Moina,"  was  born  in  Georgetown,  South  Carolina. 
Her  father,  Judge  Shackleford,  an  eminent  lawyer  in  that 
state,  removed  to  Charleston,  when  Anna  was  a  child. 
She  was  there  educated  at  the  Female  Seminary  of  the 
Miss  Ramsays',  daughters  of  the  celebrated  Doctor  David 
Ramsay.  Miss  Shackleford  gave  early  promise  of  genius, 
and  of  a  poetical  talent,  which  she  inherited  from  her  fa- 
ther. He  was  a  distinguished  scholar,  and  his  influence  in 
forming  the  literary  taste  of  his  daughter  was  very  happily 
and  effectually  exerted. 

In  May,  1830,  Miss  Shackleford  married  John  C.  Dinnies, 
a  gentleman  of  New-York,  but  then  settled  at  St.  Louis, 
Missouri,  where  Mrs.  Dinnies  has  ever  since  resided.  — 
Her  published  poetry  has  chiefly  been  written  since  her 
marriage,  and  breathes  the  tender,  trusting  and  devoted 
feeling  of  conjugal  love,  in  a  manner  which  is  very  flatter- 
ing to  her  husband.  He  must  be  worthy  of  esteem,  to  en- 
gross so  deeply  the  imagination  and  heart  of  one  familiar 
in  domestic  life.  —  The  circumstances  attending  their 
union  were  romantic,  and  it  would  seem  that,  in  this  case, 
the  romance  has  proved  a  happy  reality.  —  They  became 
engaged  in  a  literary  correspondence,  which  continued 
more  than  four  years.  The  result  was  their  marriage, 
29 


338  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

though  they  never  met  till  one  week  before  their  nuptials. 
The  contract  was  made  long  before,  entered  into  solely 
from  the  sympathy  and  congeniality  of  mind  and  taste. 
That  in  their  estimate  of  each  other  they  have  not  been  dis- 
appointed, we  may  infer  from  the  tone  of  her  songs ;  for 
there  cannot  be  domestic  confidence,  such  as  these  pourtray, 
unless  both  are  happy.  We  have  ventured  to  give  this 
pleasant  picture  of  Love  and  the  Muse  at  home,  as  a  hint 
to  our  young  men  and  maidens,  that  to  insure  a  happy  mar- 
riage, higher  requisites  than  personal  beauty  and  bank 
stock  are  necessary.  —  There  must  be  intellectual  charms 
and  moral  wealth,  to  insure  that  sentiment  which  will 

e  on  through  each  change,  and  love  to  the  last." 

The  poetry  of  Mrs.  Dinnies  is  characterized  by  vigor  of 
thought,  and  delicate  tenderness  of  feeling.  — There  is 
something  exceedingly  fascinating  in  the  display  of  intel- 
lectual power,  when  it  seems  entirely  devoted  to  the  happi- 
ness of  others.  It  is  genius  performing  the  office  of  a  guar- 
dian angel.  There  is  a  fervidness  in  the  expressions  of 
this  poetess,  which  goes  to  the  heart  of  the  reader  at  once, 
and  exalts  the  strain,  no  matter  what  the  theme  may  be. 
In  the  regions  of  imagination  she  does  not  soar  far  or  often ; 
the  wild  and  mysterious  are  not  her  passion ;  but  the  holy 
fire  of  poesy  burns  pure  and  bright  in  her  own  heart,  and 
she  cherishes  it  to  illumine  and  bless  her  own  hearth. 
The  genius  that  has  warmed  into  summer  beauty  a  frozen 
"  Chrysanthemum,"  that  "  peerless  picture  of  a  modest 
wife,"  should  be  cherished  and  encouraged  ;  for  this  "beau- 
ty-making power"  it  is  which  most  essentially  aids  reli- 
gious truths  to  refine  and  purify  social  and  domestic  life. 


MOINA.  339 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

COME,  rouse  thee,  dearest!  —  'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  brooks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all, 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills ; 
And,  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  land-marks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  now — I  know  thy  mind, 
And  would  its  strength  awaken; 

Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind  — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken  ! 

But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 

And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee ; 

Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying  weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great : 

I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 

The  angry  storms  of  earthly  wo. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 

Which  warms  thee  into  life, 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 

Familiar  to  thy  Wife  — 
For  deemest  thou  she  had  stooped  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind  ? 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nurs'd 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed,  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine  — that  sunk  her  so  to  shame. 


340  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers : 
Shake  off  this  gloom  —  Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  each  cloud  which  lowers ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wished  for  goal  —  a  guiding  star, 
With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 
Until  its  utmost  bounds  be  won: 
That  quenchless  ray  thou'lt  ever  prove, 
In  fond,  undying,  Wedded  Love. 


THE   BLUSH. 

WAS  it  unholy  ?  —  Surely  no ! 

The  tongue  no  purer  thought  can  speak, 

And  from  the  heart  no  feeling  flow 

More  chaste,  than  brightens  woman's  cheek. 

How  oft  we  mark  the  deep-tinged  rose 
Soft  mantling  where  the  lily  grew, 
Nor  deem  that  where  such  beauty  blows 
A  treacherous  thorn  's  concealed  from  view  ! 

That  thorn  may  touch  some  tender  vein, 
And  crimson  o'er  the  wounded  part!  — 
Unheeded,  too,  a  transient  pain 
Will  flush  the  cheek,  and  thrill  the  heart. 

On  beauty's  lids,  the  gem-like  tear 
Oft  sheds  its  evanescent  ray  ; 
But  scarce  is  seen  to  sparkle,  ere 
'Tis  chased  by  beaming  smiles  away  ! 


MOINA.  341 

Just  so  the  blush  is  formed  —  and  flies  — 
Nor  owns  reflection's  calm  control : 
It  comes  —  it  deepens  —  fades  and  dies  — 
A  gush  of  feeling  from  the  soul ! 


THE  CHARNEL  SHIP. 

The  Charleston  Courier  of  the  20th  December,  1828,  contains  the 
account  of  a  vessel  discovered  in  1773,  by  a  Greenland  Whale  ship. 
It  had  been  for  17  years  frozen  up  among  the  icebergs  in  the  north 
polar  sea ;  and,  when  found,  the  corses  of  several  persons  in  an 
almost  perfect  state  of  preservation  were  on  board ;  those  of  the 
Master,  his  wife,  and  a  man  with  a  book,  in  which  he  had  probably 
been  writing  when  he  died,  particularly  attracted  the  attention  of 
Captain  Warren  and  his  men. 

THE  night  —  the  long  dark  night  —  at  last 

Passed  fearfully  away  j 
'Mid  crashing  ice,  and  howling  blast, 

They  hailed  the  dawn  of  day, 
Which  broke  to  cheer  the  Whaler's  crew 
And  wide  around  its  gray  light  threw. 

The  storm  had  ceased  —  its  wrath  had  rent 

The  icy  wall  asunder  — 
And  many  a  piercing  glance  they  sent 

Around  in  awe  and  wonder ; 
And  sailor  hearts  their  rude  praise  gave, 
To  God,  that  morn,  from  o'er  the  wave. 

The  breeze  blew  freshly,  and  the  sun 

Pour'd  his  full  radiance  far 
On  heaps  of  icy  fragments  —  won, 

Sad  trophies  — in  the  past  night's  war 
Of  winds  and  waters  —  and  in  piles 
Now  drifted  by  bright  shining  isles  ! 
29* 


THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

But,  lo!  still  farther  off  appears 

A  form,  more  dim  and  dark  ; 
And  anxious  eyes  —  and  hopes,  and  fears 

Its  slow,  strange  progress  mark. 
It  moves  towards  them —  by  the  breeze 
Borne  onward  from  more  northern  seas. 

Near,  and  more  near  —  and  can  it  be, 

(More  ventrous  than  their  own) 
A  Ship,  whose  seeming  ghost  they  see 

Among  the  icebergs  thrown  — 
With  broken  masts  —  dismantled  all, 
And  dark  sails  like  a  funeral  pall  ? 

"God  of  the  mariner!  protect 

Her  inmates,  as  she  moves  along 
Through  perils,  which  ere  now  had  wrecked  — 

But  that  thine  arm  is  strong  !  " 
Ha!  she  has  struck  — she  grounds  —  she  stands 
Still  —  as  if  held  by  gUnt  hands ! 

"Quick,  man  the  boat"  — away  they  sprang, 

The  stranger  ship  to  aid, 
And  loud  their  hailing  voices  rang, 

And  rapid  speed  they  made; 
But  all  in  silence,  deep,  unbroke, 
The  vessel  stood  — none  answering  spoke. 

'T  was  tVurful !  not  a  sound  arose  — 

No  moving  thing  was  there, 
To  interrupt  the  dread  repose 

Which  filled  each  heart  with  fear. 
On  deck  they  silent  stepped  —and  sought, 
Till  one,  a  man,  their  sad  sight  caught. 

He  was  alone  —  the  damp-chill  mould 

Of  years  hung  on  his  cheek; 
While  the  pen  within  his  hand  had  told 

The  tale  no  yoice  might  speak: 


MOINA.  343 

"Seventy  days,"  the  record  stood  — 

"  We  have  been  in  the  ice,  and  wanted  food !  " 

They  took  his  hook,  and  turned  away, 

But  soon  discovered  where 
The  Wife  in  her  death-sleep,  gently  lay 

Near  him  in  life  most  dear  — 
Who,  seated  beside  his  young  heart's  pride, 
Long  years  before  had  calmly  died. 

Oh,  wedded  love!  how  beautiful. 

How  pure  a  thing  thou  art. 
Whose  influence  e'en  in  death  can  rule 

And  triumph  o'er  the  heart ; 
Can  cheer  life's  roughest  walk —  and  shed 
A  holy  light  around  the  dead ! 

There  was  a  solemn,  sacred  feeling 

Kindled  in  every  breast, 
And,  softly  from  the  cabin  stealing, 

They  left  them  to  their  rest ; 
The  fair  —  the  young  —  the  constant  pair  — 
They  left  them  with  a  blessing  there. 

And  to  their  boat  returning,  each 

With  thoughtful  brows,  and  haste, 
And  o'ercharged  hearts,  too  full  for  speech 

Left  'midst  the  frozen  waste 
That  Charnel  ship,  which  years  before 
Had  sailed  from  distant  Albion's  shore. 

They  left  her  in  the  icebergs,  where 

Few  venture  to  intrude, 
A  monument  of  death,  and  fear, 

'Midst  Ocean's  solitude; 
And,  grateful  for  their  own  release, 

Thanked  God.  and  sought  their  homes  in  peace. 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


TO  MY  HUSBAND'S  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

"  I  know  thee  not —  I  loathe  thy  race ; 

"  But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 

"  What  time  shall  strengthen  —  not  eflace." 

GIAOCR. 

THOU  strange,  unbidden  guest !  from  whence 

Thus  early  hast  thou  come  ? 
And  wherefore  ?    Rude  intruder,  hence ! 

And  seek  some  fitter  home ! 
These  rich  young  locks  are  all  too  dear  — 
Indeed  thou  must  not  linger  here  ! 

Go!  take  thy  sober  aspect  where 

The  youthful  cheek  is  fading, 
Or  find  some  furrowed  brow,  which  Care 

And  Passion  have  been  shading ; 
And  add  thy  sad,  malignant  trace, 
To  mar  the  aged,  or  anguished  face  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  go?    Then  answer  me, 

And  tell  what  brought  thee  here  ? 
Not  one  of  all  thy  tribe  I  see 

Beside  thyself  appear, 

And,  through  these  bright  and  clustering  curls, 
Thou  shinest,  a  tiny  thread  of  pearls. 

Thou  art  a  moralist  ?  ah,  well ! 

And  comest  from  Wisdom's  land, 
A  few  sage  axioms  just  to  tell  ? 

Wi-11!  well!  I  understand  — 
Old  Truth  has  sent  thee  here  to  bear 
The  maxims  which  we  fain  must  hear. 


MOINA.  345 

And  now,  as  I  observe  thee  nearer, 

Thou'rt  pretty  —  very  pretty  —  quite 
As  glossy  and  as  fair  —  nay  fairer 

Than  these,  but  not  so  bright ; 
And  since  thou  came  Truth's  messenger, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  and  speak  of  her. 

She  says  thou  art  a  herald,  sent 

In  kind  and  friendly  warning, 
To  mix  with  locks  by  Beauty  blent, 

(The  fair  young  brow  adorning,) 
And  midst  their  wild  luxuriance  taught 
To  show  thyself,  and  waken  thought. 

That  thought,  which  to  the  dreamer  preaches 

A  lesson  stern  as  true, 
That  all  things  pass  away,  and  teaches 

How  youth  must  vanish  too ! 
And  thou  wert  sent  to   ouse  anew 
This  Thought,  whene'er  thou  meet'st  the  view. 

And  comes  there  not  a  whispering  sound,  - 

A  low,  faint,  murmuring  breath, 
Which,  as  thou  movest,  floats  around 

Like  Echoes  in  their  death? 
"  Time  onward  sweeps,  youth  flies,  prepare  "  — 
Such  is  thine  errand,  First  Gray  Hair. 


346  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 


HAPPINESS. 

Happiness  is  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  the  mind  that  gives  its  tone 
and  coloring  to  Nature. 

THERE  is  a  spell  in  every  flower  — 

A  sweetness  in  each  spray, 
And  every  simple  bird  has  power 

To  please  me  with  its  lay  ! 

And  there  is  music  on  each  breeze 

That  sports  along  the  glade ; 
The  crystal  dew-drops  on  the  trees 

Are  gems,  by  Fancy  made : 

There's  gladness  too  in  every  thing, 

And  beauty  over  all, 
For  every  where  comes  on,  with  Spring, 

A  charm  which  cannot  pall ! 

And  I!  — my  heart  is  full  of  joy, 

And  gratitude  is  there, 
That  He,  who  might  my  life  destroy, 

Has  yet  vouchsafed  to  spare. 

The  friends  I  once  condemned,  are  now 

Affectionate  and  true: 
I  wept  a  pledged  one's  broken  vow  — 

But  he  proves  faithful  too. 

And  now  there  is  a  happiness 

In  every  thing  I  see, 
Which  bids  my  soul  rise  up  and  bless 

The  God  who  blesses  me. 


MOINA.  347 


THOUGHTS  IN  AUTUMN. 

YES,  thou  art  welcome,  Autumn !  all  thy  changes, 

From  fitful  gloom,  to  sunny  skies  serene ; 
The  starry  vaults,  o'er  which  the  charmed  eye  ranges, 

And  clear  cold  moonlight  —  touching  every  scene 
With  a  peculiar  sadness —  are  sweet  things 
To  which  my  heart  congenial  fondly  clings. 

There  is  a  moral  in  the  withered  wreathes 
And  faded  garlands,  that  adorn  thy  bowers ; 

Eachblighted  shrub — chilled  flower — or  seared  leaf  breathes 
Of  parted  days  —  and  brighter,  by-gone  hours  — 

Contrasting  with  the  present  dreary  scene 

Spring's  budding  beauties — pleasures  which  have  been. 

Oh,  life  !  thy  pageantry  is  here  portrayed  ; 

A  thousand  emblems  picture  thee  to  view  — 
But  never,  till  Experience  stern  has  laid 

On  the  young  heart  her  wand,  we  deem  them  true. 
Then,  while  yet  smarting  from  the  touch,  we  own. 
Faithless  the  phantoms  from  our  sight  withdrawn. 

Friends,  who  have  loved  us  in  the  pleasant  years 
Of  childhood  —  dead,  or  exiled  far  away  ; 

The  seeming  kind  ones,  —  who,  deceiving  tears 
Shed  for  a  time,  —  then  left  us  for  the  gay ; 

The  cold  —  the  false  —  all  then  to  memory  start, 

And  deeply  trace  their  records  on  the  heart. 

And  Thee  —  my  fair  —  my  only  one  —  now  lying 
In  Infancy's  first  bloom ;  beneath  the  cold 

And  cheerless  sod,  on  whose  still  breast  are  dying 

These  crisped  young  flow'rets,  with  their  charms  untold, 


348  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

How  come,  in  such  an  hour,  fond  thoughts  of  thee, 
To  soothe,  yet  sadden  brooding  Memory ! 

To  win  the  spirit  from  those  fleeting  dreams 
Which  bind  it  down  to  Earth— to  break  the  spell 

Of  each  bright  vision,  which  enchantment  seems, 
And  Truth's  hard  lesson  deeply  teach  and  well, 

Bidding  the  mind  on  Hope's  light  pinions  rise, 

And  seek  its  home  —its  joy  beyond  the  skies. 

Alas  !  there  are  not  many  lights  which  shed 
Their  brightening  radiance  long,  to  cheer  us  here  : 

And  some  have  lived  to  know  the  lustre  fled 
From  those  which  promised  most  —  seemed  strong  and 
clear, 

Until  the  gathering  clouds  o'er  Life's  wild  stream 

Wrapt  all  in  gloom,  nave  Hope's  undying  beam. 

Then  may  they  not— worn  bosoms  such  as  these, 
Find  sad  memorials  in  ten  thousand  things 

To  symbol  forth  their  history  ?  Leafless  trees 
Ye  answer  to  my  call — the  bleak  wind  flings 

In  Autumn's  eve  a  spell  upon  the  heart, 

From  whose  dark  sympathy,  'twere  grief  to  part. 

And  things  inanimate  m  iy  wake  a  sigh, 
When  living  object*  weary  :  oft  it  cheers 

The  drooping  spirit  —  and  relieves  the  eye, 
To  gaze  on  Nature  through  our  gushing  tears  — 

On  objects  which  we  feel  cannot  inherit, 

Though  doomed  to  fail  like  us  —  a  deathless  spirit. 


MOINA.  349 


LINES 

Addressed  to  a  White  Chrysanthemum,  presented  to  the  writer 
in  December. 

FAIR  gift  of  Friendshipla  nd  her  ever  bright 
And  faultless  image  !  welcome  now  thou  art, 

In  thy  pure  loveliness  —  thy  robes  of  white, 
Speaking  a  moral  to  the  feeling  heart ; 

Unscathed  by  heats  — by  wintry  blasts  unmoved  — 

Thy  strength  thus  tested  —  and  thy  charms  improved. 

Emblem  of  innocence,  which  fearless  braves 
Life's  dreariest  scenes,  its  rudest  storm  derides, 

And  floats  as  calmly  on  o'er  troubled  waves, 
As  where  the  peaceful  streamlet  smoothly  glides ; 

Thou  ^rt  blooming  now  as  beautiful  and  clear, 

As  other  blossoms  do,  when  Spring  is  here. 

Symbol  of  hope,  still  banishing  the  gloom, 
Hung  o'er  the  mind  by  stern  December's  reign  ! 

Thou  cheer'st  the  fancy  by  thy  steady  bloom 
With  thoughts  of  Summer  and  the  fertile  plain, 

Calling  a  thousand  visions  into  play, 

Of  beauty  redolent  —  and  bright  as  May  ! 

Type  of  a  true  and  holy  love ;  the  same 

Through  every  scene  that  crowds  life's  varied  page ; 

Mid  grief — mid  gladness,  spell  of  every  dream, 
Tender  in  youth  —  and  strong  in  feeble  age  ! 

The  peerless  picture  of  a  modest  wife, 

Thou  bloom'st  the  fairest,  midst  the  frosts  of  life.* 

*  Literally— the  water  in  which  it  was  placed  being  now  frozen. 
30 


350  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 


STANZAS. 

Addressed  to  my  daughter  while  she  slept. 

REST,  my  babe,  in  pea.ce  and  beauty, 
On  thy  anxious  mother's  breast, 

Careful  lore,  maternal  duty 
Watch  thee,  precious,  in  thy  rest. 

Rest,  while  infancy  sheds  o'er  thee, 

Passionless,  its  purity 
Blinded  to  the  fate  before  thee,— 

Free  from  guile,  from  sorrow  free. 

Rest,  ere  childhood's  playful  season 
Scatters  thorns  with  roses  gay,  — 

Thorns  to  spurn  the  waking  reason, 
Roses  fading  in  a  day ; 

When  a  fleeting  cloud,  young  sorrow 

Passes  o'er  thine  open  brow, 
Warning  of  a  changefal  morrow,  — 

Rest  unconscious,  sweet  one,  now. 

Rest,  ere  girlhood's  giddy  hours 
Bind  thee,  pleasure's  votary, 

In  a  wreath  of  weeds  and  flowers, 
Strown  at  random  o'er  thy  way. 

Rest,  ere  yet  the  maiden's  blushes 

Deepen  o'er  thy  lily  cheek, 
When  the  crimson  torrent  rushes, 

Voiceless,  tho'  H  will  volumes  speak. 


MO  IN  A.  351 


Ere  the  thoughts,  the  vivid  fancies, 
Waking  thou  would'st  not  reveal, 

On  thy  sleeping  face,  (like  glances 
From  the  soul,)  shall  brightly  steal. 

Rest,  while  Infancy  has  bound  thee 

In  a  circle  free  from  pain  ; 
Rest,  ere  womanhood  casts  round  thee 

Sorrows,  woman  must  sustain. 


THE  WIFE. 

"  She  flung  her  white  arms  around  him — Thou  art  all 
That  this  poor  heart  can  cling  to." 

I  COULD  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear. 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  "  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brooked, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own, 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "  alone." 


THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumbered,  slowly,  meek; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I'll  be  "alone;"  — 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As,  filled  with  heaven-ward  trust,  they  say, 

"  Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer ; " 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much  —  this  heart 

Must  break,  when  thou  art  gone  ; 
It  must  not  be ;  we  may  not  pan ; 

I  could  not  live  "  alone !  " 


THE  HEART. 

"  I  lingered  in  the  Halls  of  Imagination.  Her  sceptre  had  fallen 
from  her  grasp.  I  turned  to  the  realm  of  the  Heart.  Its  power 
had  increased  with  years." 

THERE  was  a  time  when  Fancy  uninvoked, 
Cast  her  light  spells  where'er  my  spirit  roved, 

Each  passing  scene  anew  her  smiles  provoked, 
And  all  seemed  lovely,  —  for  each  one  was  loved. 

But  now  I  gaze,  unheeding  most  I  see 

Of  wild  or  fair,  in  Nature's  boundless  hoard ; 

A  change  is  over  all  —  a  change  in  me  — 
As  Lethe's  streams  o'er  Fancy's  source  were  poured. 


MOINA.  353 

This  change  I  mourn,  and  seek  again  the  dreams 
Which  brightened,  soothed,  and  gladdened  life  of  yore  ; 

But  shaded  groves,  fresh  flowers,  and  purling  streams, 
Exert  their  influence  o'er  my  mind  no  more. 

No  more  I  dream  —  for  Fancy  has  grown  old 
And  Thought  is  busied  now  with  sterner  things, 

E'en  Feeling's  self — yet,  no  !  I  am  not  cold  ; 
But  feeling  now  round  other  objects  clings. 

There  are  in  life,  realities  as  dear, 

Nay,  dearer  far  than  Fancy  can  create, 
Though  Taste  may  vary  —  beauty  disappear, 

That  linger  still,  defying  Time  and  Fate. 

The  flush  of  Youth  soon  passes  from  the  face, 
The  spells  of  Fancy  from  the  mind  depart, 

The  form  may  lose  its  symmetry  and  grace,  — 
But  Time  can  claim  no  victory  o'er  the  Heart. 


SARAH   HELEN  WHITMAN. 


MRS.  WHITMAN  is  a  native  of  Providence,  Rhode-Island. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Power.  Her  father  died  when  she 
was  a  child;  her  mother  being  thus  left  to  the  solitariness 
of  a  widow's  lot,  devoted  herself  with  unwearied  care  to 
the  education  of  her  daughter. 

The  health  of  Miss  Power  was  constitutionally  delicate, 
while  her  mental  faculties  developed  with  that  quickness 
and  brilliancy  which  surely  indicates  the  predominancy  of 
imagination.  Poetry  was  the  favorite  literature  of  her  youth- 
ful studies,  and  she  soon  manifested  the  propensity,  which 
the  Muse  will  foster  in  those  she  elects  her  votaries,  to 
"  write  in  rhyme." 

In  1828,  Miss  Power  was  married  to  John  W.  Whitman, 
a  young  lawyer,  son  of  Judge  Whitman,  of  Boston.  The 
marriage  was  one  of  affection,  induced  by  the  congeniality 
of  poetical  and  literary  tastes — but  the  union  was  in  a  few 
years  dissolved  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Whitman.  Mrs. 
Whitman  then  returned  to  her  mother's  arms,  and  her  early 
home  at  Providence,  where  she  now  resides. 

Her  poetry  has  appeared  in  the  periodicals  and  annuals 
over  the  signature  "  Helen,"  and  always  excited  attention 
by  its  richness  of  imagery  and  sweet,  melodious  versifica- 
tion. She  has  an  uncommonly  retentive  memory,  and  elab- 
orates her  poems  in  a  rather  peculiar  manner ;  arranging, 


HELEN.  355 

correcting  and  finishing  them  as  compositions  perfectly 
and  wholly  in  her  mind,  be  they  ever  so  long,  before  com- 
mitting a  line  to  paper.  By  this  means  she  has  no  unfin- 
ished performances;  those  that  she  does  not  complete  at 
once  are  entirely  abandoned. 

Her  published  poems  have  not  been  numerous;  she  ap- 
pears never  to  have  contemplated  making  a  volume,  but 
only  allows  her  thoughts  to  visit  the  temple  of  the  muses, 
to  gratify  her  own  love  of  the  beautiful  and  glorious  in  na- 
ture and  art.  The  genius  of  this  amiable  woman  seems 
naturally  of  that  delicate  presence  which  shrinks,  like  the 
"  Sensitive  plant,"  from  any  collision  with  the  actual  world ; 
but  the  sad  passages  in  her  life  have  probably  deepened  the 
melancholy  pathos  of  her  strains.  There  appears  no  affec- 
tation in  this  sensibility — sue  feels  as  warm  admiration  for 
the  beauties  and  blessings  which  the  beneficent  Creator  has 
bestowed  on  the  works  and  creatures  of  his  hand,  as  though 
these  awakened  none  but  pleasurable  emotions.  Still 
there  is  ever  in  her  heart  a  sensation  of  sadness,  like  that 
so  powerfully  described  by  Keats  in  his  "  Ode  on  Melan- 
choly," as  if  she  tasted  the  bitter  ingredient  in  the  sweetest 
draught,  and  could  always  say  of  the  "  Goddess  sage  and 
holy," 

"  She  dwells  with  Beauty  — Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips; 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sorrow  shrine. 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 

Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  tlje  sadness  of  her  might, 

And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung." 


356  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 


THE  BLIND  MAN'S  LAY. 

"  AT  times  Allan  felt  as  if  his  blindness  were  a  blessing— for  it 
forced  him  to  trust  to  his  own  soul— to  turn  for  comfort  to  the  best 
and  purest  human  affections  -and  to  see  God  always.  Fanny  could 
almost  have  wept  to  see  the  earth  and  the  sky  so  beautiful,  now  that 
Allan's  eyes  were  dark;  but  he  whimpered  to  her,  that  the  smell  of 
the  budding  trees  and  of  the  primroses,  that  he  knew  were  near  his 
feet,  was  pleasant  indeed,  and  that  the  singing  of  all  the  little  birds 
made  his  heart  dance  within  him." — LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  SCOT- 
TISH LIFE. 

HE  sat  beside  the  fountain,  on  whose  brink 

A  troop  of  blue-eyed  violets  oped  their  lids 

To  the  first  breezy  call  of  early  spring  — 

And  there,  from  the  grey  dawn  till  twilight's  gloom, 

Where  the  soft,  springing  moss,  surcharged  with  dew, 

Yielded  its  oozing  moisture  to  the  touch, 

Telling  the  nightfall  near,— he  mused  away 

Long  hours  of  silent  happiness,  save  when 

The  soft  and  pitying  words  of  love  would  call 

His  spell-bound  spirit  from  its  blissful  thrall ; 

Then,  in  a  voice  of  sweetest  melody, 

He  breathed  his  unrepining,  meek  reply: 

Though  I  hear  thee  gaily  tell 
Of  the  tulip's  shaded  bell, 
Of  the  wall-flower's  varied  hue, 
And  the  violet  "darkly  blue," 
And  the  crimson  blush  that  glows 
On  the  rich,  voluptuous  rose — 
These  no  longer  bloom  for  me, 
These  I  never  more  may  see. 


HELEN.  357 

But  this  gentle  season  still 
Can  my  heart  with  gladness  fill — 
I  can  hear  the  spring-winds  blow, 
And  the  gurgling  fountains  flow. 
Hark !  e'en  now  a  zephyr  breathes, 
Through  the  balmy  hawthorn  wreaths, 
Unfelt,  unheard  by  all  but  me, 
It  swells  so  soft,  so  silently ! 

I  can  hear  the  humming-bee 
Flitting  o'er  the  sunny  lea, 
Wooing  every  bashful  flower, 
From  morn  till  evening's  dewy  hour.  • 
All  around  the  voice  of  birds, 
And  the  lisped  and  laughing  words 
Of  merry  childhood,  greet  my  ear, 
With  power  the  saddest  heart  to  cheer. 

When  o'er  earth  night's  shadow  lies, 
I  hear  thee  tell  of  cloudless  skies, 
And  countless  stars  that  twinkle  through 
Heaven's  broad  and  boundless  arch  of  blue; 
Of  snow  white  spires  and  turrets  fair 
Soft  gleaming  in  the  moonlit  air, 
Whose  dusky  depths  of  shadow  lie 
Heightening  the  brilliant  scenery. 

Then  beneath  the  pine  trees  tall, 
Near  yonder  foaming  waterfall, 
I  listen  to  the  stock  dove's  wail, 
Far  floating  through  the  quiet  vale ; 
Soft  sighing  breezes  waft  to  me 
The  fragrance  of  the  birchen  tree  — 
And  the  "  brawling  burnie"  wimples  by 
With  a  gush  of  soothing  melody. 

E'en  all  sweet  sense  of  these  will  fade 
At  times — as  though  impervious  shade 


358  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Like  that  which  hides  me  from  the  day, 
O'er  each  external  image  lay — 
Then  many  a  form  thou  canst  not  see, 
Unfolds  its  sun-bright  wings  to  me, 
And  deep  within  my  silent  soul 
High  thoughts  and  holiest  visions  roll. 

Full  many  an  angel  messenger 
Comes  down  my  darksome  path  to  cheer, 
And  all  around  my  sylvan  throne 
There  seems  to  wake  a  dreamy  tone 
Of  solemn  music  through  the  air, 
So  wildly  sweet — so  silvery  clear — 
So  full  of  heaven — no  tongue  can  tell 
The  raptures  that  my  bosom  swell. 

Not  all  the  joys  that  have  their  birth 
In  the  vain  pageantries  of  earth, 
Are  half  so  fraught  with  power  to  bless, 
So  rich  in  pensive  happiness. 
Wrapt  in  these  lonely  reveries, 
Serene  and  holy  transports  rise, 
Such  as  we  deem  pure  spirits  know, 
Such  as  from  God's  felt  presence  flow. 

Thus,  when  affliction's  friendly  screen 
Shuts  out  life's  vain  illusive  scene  — 
When  thus  she  seals  our  weary  eyes 
To  all  its  glittering  vanities, 
A  gleam  of  heavenly  light  will  pour 
Our  dark  despairing  spirits  o'er, 
And  Faith,  with  meek  and  steadfast  eye, 
Far  glancing  through  eternity, 

Sees  where  the  heavenly  mansions  rise, 
Of  her  bright  home  beyond  the  skies, 
Whose  golden  fanes  sublimely  tower 
High  o'er  the  clouds  that  round  us  lower. 


HELEN. 

Then  welcome  sorrow's  shrouding  shade 
Fade  !  scenes  of  earthly  splendor,  fade  ! 
And  leave  me  to  that  dawning  ray 
That  brightens  till  the  "perfect  day." 


RETROSPECTION. 

MY  heart  is  in  my  childhood's  home. 

And  by  the  far-off  sunny  braes. 
Where,  musing,  once  I  loved  to  roam, 

In  early  youth's  romantic  days. 

The  past  —  the  past  —  the  dreamy  past, 
Called  up  by  memory's  magic  wand, 

Gleams  through  the  halo  round  it  cast, 
Bright  as  e'en  hope's  own  phantom  land. 

Oh  never  more  in  after  life 
Can  hope  itself  such  dreams  impart 

As  then,  with  breathing  beauty  rife, 
Wreathed  their  soft  spells  around  my  heart. 

The  skies  were  brighter,  then,  than  now, 
More  bland  the  wandering  breezes  blew, 

The  birds  sang  sweeter  on  the  bough, 
The  wild  flowers  wore  a  richer  hue. 

Ideal  forms  of  classic  lore, 

By  moss-grown  grot  and  crystal  well, 
Seemed  still  to  linger  as  of  yore, 

And  fairies  danced  in  every  dell. 

Blither  than  Elf-land's  fabled  queen, 
I  loved  the  green  and  laughing  earth ; 


360  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

While  wooded  cliff  and  wild  ravine, 
Were  echoing  to  my  bosom's  mirth. 

For  care  had  never  dimm'd  my  brow, 
Nor  friends  proved  heartless  and  untrue ; 

I  ne'er  had  wept  love's  broken  vow, 
Nor  aught  of  life's  dark  changes  knew. 

Farewell,  sweet  scenes  of  past  delight ! 

Slowly  ye  sink  from  memory's  gaze, 
Still  beaming  with  reflected  light, 

As  bathed  in  twilight's  parting  rays. 

I  wander  on  my  weary  way, 
Unmindful  where  my  lot  is  cast, 

Since  wheresoe'er  my  footsteps  stray, 
They  cannot  lead  me  to  the  past. 


SHE  BLOOMS  NO  MORE. 

O  Spring!  youth  of  the  year— fair  mother  of  flowers! 
Thou  returnest,  but  with  thee  return  not  the  serene 
And  fortunate  days  of  my  joy. — GUARLNA. 

I  DREAD  to  see  the  summer  sun 

Come  glowing  up  the  sky, 
And  modest  flowerets,  one  by  one, 

Opening  the  violet  eye ; 
The  choral  melody  of  June  — 

The  perfumed  breath  of  heaven  — 
The  dewy  morn  —  the  radiant  noon  — 

The  lingering  light  of  even. 


HELEN.  361 

These,  which  so  charmed  my  careless  heart 

In  happy  days  gone  by, 
A  deeper  sadness  now  impart 

To  memory's  thoughtful  eye. 
They  speak  of  one  who  sleeps  in  death, 

Her  race  untimely  o'er, 
Who  ne'er  shall  taste  spring's  honied  breath, 

Nor  see  her  glories  more. 

Of  one  who  shared,  with  me,  in  youth 

Life's  sunshine  and  its  flowers, 
And  kept  unchanged  her  bosom's  truth 

Through  all  its  darker  hours. 
She  faded  when  the  leaves  were  sere, 

And  wailed  the  autumnal  blast  — 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  year 

From  earth  her  spirit  passed. 

Again  the  nodding  lilac  bows 

Beneath  its  plumy  crest  — 
In  yonder  hedge  the  hawthorn  blows,  — 

The  robin  builds  his  nest. 
The  floating  vines  she  loved  to  train 

Around  her  lattice,  wear 
Their  snowy  coronals  again, 

And  hang  their  garlands  there. 

But  she  can  bloom  on  earth  no  more, 

Whose  early  doom  I  mourn,  — 
Nor  spring,  nor  summer  can  restore 

Our  flower  untimely  shorn; 
Her  smile  is  gone,  which  beamed  on  me 

With  mild  and  steadfast  light ; 
Her  rosy  lips  have  mournfully 

Breathed  out  their  last  good  night. 

She  ne'er  shall  hear  again  the  song 
Of  merry  birds  in  spring, 
31 


362  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Nor  roam  tke  flowery  braes  among 
In  the  year's  young  blossoming: 

Nor  longer  in  the  lingering  light 
Of  summer's  eve  shall  we, 

Locked  hand  in  hand,  together  sit 
Beneath  the  green-wood  tree. 

'Tis  therefore  that  I  dread  to  see 

The  glowing  summer  sun, 
And  balmy  blossoms  on  the  tree, 

Unfolding  one  by  one. 
They  speak  of  things  which  once  have  been, 

But  never  more  can  be,  — 
And  earth  all  decked  in  smiles  again 

Is  still  a  waste  to  me. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

HAIL!  queen  of  high  and  holy  thought  ; 
Of  dreams,  with  fairy  beauty  fraught ; 
Sweet  memories  of  the  days  gone  by ; 
Glimpses  of  immortality. 
Visions  of  grandeur,  glory,  power, 
All  that  in  inspiration's  hour, 
Like  sunset's  changing  glories  roll 
Within  the  poet's  raptured  soul ! 

Thy  throne  is  in  the  crimson  fold, 
Around  the  setting  day-star  rolled — 
Thou  walkest  through  the  sapphire  sky, 
When  the  bright  moon  is  sailing  high, 
Touching  the  stars  with  purer  light, 
And  lending  holier  charms  to  night: 


HELEN.  363 

The  clouds  a  deeper  glory  wear, 
The  winds  a  softer  music  bear, 
And  earth  is  heaven,  when  thou  art  there. 

There's  not  a  murmur  on  the  breeze, 
Nor  ripple  on  the  dark,  blue  seas, 
Nor  breath  of  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Nor  glittering  dewdrop  at  our  feet, 
Nor  tinge  of  mellow  radiance,  where 
Soft  moon-beams  melt  along  the  air ; 
Nor  shade,  nor  tint,  on  flower  or  tree, 
But  takes  a  softer  grace  from  thee. 

And  love  itself —  the  brightest  gem 
In  all  creation's  diadem  — 
Oh !  what  were  mortal  love,  didst  thou 
Not  lend  a  glory  to. his  brow  ? 
Degraded,  though  of  heavenly  birth, 
And  sullied  with  the  cares  of  earth  — 
Wasted  and  worn,  by  doubts  and  fears, 
Its  youthful  smiles  soon  change  to  tears  : 
But  at  thy  spirit-stirring  breath, 
It  burst  the  bonds  of  sin  and  death  ; 
And,  robed  in  heavenly  charms  by  thee, 
It  puts  on  immortality. 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


MRS.  OILMAN,  whose  maiden  name  was  Howard,  was 
born  in  Boston,  and  has  proved  herself  a  worthy  daughter 
of  the  "  Literary  Emporium.1'  She  is  not,  however,  so 
much  distinguished  for  her  devotion  to  the  muses,  as  for 
her  prose  writings,  and  the  hearty  zeal  with  which  she  has 
labored  to  diffuse  a  literary  spirit  and  strengthen  and  beau- 
tify the  moral  taste  of  the  community  where  she  resides. — 
Mrs.  Oilman  is  wife  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Oilman,  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Unitarian  faith,  who  has  been  for  a  number  of 
years  pastor  of  a  church  at  Charleston,  S.  C.  There,  the 
urbanity  of  his  manners,  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  and  the 
truly  Christian  virtues  he  has  exhibited,  have  gained  for 
him  a  warm  regard  from  Christians  of  all  denominations. 
And  to  say  that  Mrs.  Oilman  has  proved  "  a  help  meet  for 
him,"  is  to  her  the  highest  praise  we  can  give,  or  that  she 
would  covet. 

About  three  years  since,  Mrs.  Oilman,  who  felt  the  great 
importance  of  giving  to  the  youthful  mind  aright  direction, 
formed  the  plan  of  issuing  a  "  Journal  for  the  Young."  She 
named  it  "The  Southern  Rose-hud,"  and  published  it 
semi-monthly.  It  was  so  well  received  and  patronized, 
that  she  has  now  enlarged  its  size,  and  elevated  its  charac- 
ter to  the  standard  of  a  literary  and  moral  paper,*  in  which 
persons  of  all  ages  can  find  pleasure  and  profit. —  In  this 

•  "  The  Southern  Rose.'* 


C.  G.  365 

paper  some  of  her  best  poetry  and  most  of  her  prose  writings 
have  first  appeared.  —  She  has  collected  one  volume  of 
these  "  Sketches  "  already,  "  Recollections  of  a  House- 
keeper,"—  a  very  sprightly,  amusing,  and  useful  little 
work —  and  she  has  another  in  preparation  —  "  The  South- 
ern Matron,"  which  we  feel  confident  will  also  be  very 
popular. 

The  character  of  Mrs.  Oilman's  poetry  is  that  of  a  healthy 
imagination  and  cheerful  mind ;  she  sees  no  "  lions  in  her 
path,"  and  she  attempts  no  picturings  of  fictitious  woes. 
She  admires  nature,  and  delights  in  society :  the  dear  do- 
mestic affections  and  virtues  are  the  themes  she  chooses  — 
these,  to  her  ardent  feelings,  are  sufficient  inspiration ; 
and  Nature,  with  all  her  glories  and  beauties,  is  but  the 
hand-maid  to  decorate  home  with  those  thoughts  and  fan- 
cies which  can  be  used  to  make  glad  the  faces  of  those  she 
loves.  —  Like  the  "Amaranth,"  her  heart  seems  always  in 
bloom ;  and  though  she  did  not  bring  an  early  offering  to 
the  temple  of  the  muses,  yet  her  matured  powers  of  mind 
and  natural  vivacity  of  temperament,  promise  her  name  a 
bright  and  long-continued  place  among  the  living  flowers 
of  our  Wreath. 


THE  BETROTHED. 

SCENE.  —  A  Southern  Plantation — Noon. 

MOTHER. 

WHY  linger  near  me,  Emma,  with  that  cheek 
Which  colors  up  in  flushings  like  the  sky 
Lit  by  the  sinking  sun?    Why  from  thine  hand 
Falls  the  small  needle,  as  e'en  that  were  weight 
Too  large  ?    What  mean  these  broken  words,  and  sighs 
Now  passionate,  then  sinking  down  so  low 
That  I  must  bend  mine  ear  to  catch  the  tone  ? 
Hark !  is  that  Edgar's  step? 
31* 


366  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

EMMA. 

O,  mother  dear — 

MOTHER. 

My  child,  my  simple  chi  Id,  it  needs  not  words 
To  tell  me  now— indeed,  I've  known  it  long. 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  see  the  lily's  eaves 
Floating  like  living  things  upon  the  wave, 
And  guess  not  that  the  title,  did  move  them  thus  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  when  the  rose's  bloom  is  stirrd, 
I  know  not  that  the  breeze,  with  waving  breath, 
Is  sweeping  o'er  its  rich  and  blushing  leaves  ? 
Or,  when  the  wind-harp  wakes  with  thrilling  tones, 
I  know  not  the  same  breeze,  kissing  its  strings, 
Doth  cause  its  murmurs  ?  Just  as  plain  to  me, 
Is  it,  that  /ore,  my  child,  hath  touch'd  thy  soul ! 
"^        -tart  not,  Emma,  'tis  no  sin  to  love. — 
But  come,  and  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  tell  me  all.     I  will  not  seek  thine  eyes, 
Nor  pierce  their  sable  fringe,  but  clasp  thy  hand. 
Thy  fair,  soft  hand,  whose  tender  pressure  shall 
Speak  half  thy  tale. 

EMMA. 

My  gentle  mother,  how 
Can  I  for  any  other  love  neglect 
Thy  love?  nor  did  I,  nor  did  Edgar  thus; 
And  when  this  morn  heurg'd  his  eager  suit, 
Thy  name  was  blent  in  fondness  with  my  own. 
Rememberest  thou,  oh  yes,  thou  never  canst 
Forget  the  day,  when,  but  a  thoughtless  girl, 
With  springing  step  and  floating  hair.  I  sought 
The  river  bank  whereon  my  brothers  sat, 
Throwing  the  line  to  lure  their  watery  prey  ; 
Eager  to  see  their  prisoner  caught,  I  lean'd 
On  a  young  sapling  with  unconscious  weight, 


C.   G.  367 

And  fell — when  Edgar  saw — he  sprang — impetuous, 
Leap'd  to  the  wave,  and,  with  sustaining  strength, 
Upbore  me  till  assistance  came.    How  quick 
Is  thought !     Though  reeling,  dizzy,  just  upon 
The  brink  of  dark  futurity,  this  hope 
Came  lighting  like  a  torch  my  youthful  heart, 
Edgar  will  be  my  friend  I  I  knew  not  love, 
Or  then  perchance  I  might  have  said,  my  love  ! 

Ere  long  he  left  us  for  more  classic  bowers  ; 
But  tidings  often  came  of  one,  who  stood 
Before  his  classmates  with  a  laurelPd  brow, 
Winning  with  graceful  ease  the  frequent  prize. 
Nor  this  alone ;  I  heard  of  generous  deeds 
Where  the  kind  heart  out-shone  the  sparkling  mind. 
As  yon  white  blossoms  grace  the  laurel-tree. 

And  tokens  sometimes  came  rememberingly, 
(Thou  know'st  them,  mother,  well) — a  drawing  once 
Of  a  young  girl  just  rescued  from  the  waves, 
With  eyes  seal'd  up  like  blossoms  in  rude  storms ; 
He  had  not  sketch'd  her  young  deliverer  ; 
For  modesty  is  nature  in  him,  but 
My  vision  fancied  there  the  ardent  boy, — 
His  chestnut  curls  crush'd  by  the  sweeping  stream, 
His  panting  chest,  his  opening  lips,  his  eyes 
Starting  in  fear,  and  doubt,  and  growing  joy, 
When  I  unfolded  mine. — sometimes  a  flower 
Was  sent,  or  leaf,  gather'd  perchance  in  some 
Lone,  musing  hour  ;  or  colored  sea-shell  which 
In  whispers  to  mine  ear,  told  a  soft  tale 
I  whisper'd  not  again. 

Time  roll'd,  and  he, 

That  distant  one,  crown'd  with  collegiate  fame, 
Return'd.     He  sought  me  mother,  and  this  morn, 
Where  the  clematis-bower    shuts  out  the  sun, 
And  the  fond  birds  pour  forth  their  loving  lays, 
He  ask'd  me  for  my  heart. — I  answer'd  not; 
But,  mother,  it  was  his,  on  that  far  morn 


368  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

When  shuddering  from  the  river's  depth  I  woke 
Within  his  arms. 

MOTHER. 

Thanks,  love,  for  this  fond  trust 
Oh,  never  should  a  daughter's  thoughts  find  rest  ; 
On  kinder  pillow  than  a  mother's  heart. 
But  Edgar  comes. — Look  up,  and  meet  his  smile. 

******* 

Yes,  take  her  hand,  and  with  it  a  young  heart 
Full  of  love's  first  devotion.    'Tis  a  charge, 
My  son,  most  precious !     When  she  errs,  reprove; 
Spare  not  deserv'd  reproof;  she  has  been  train'd 
In  Christ's  high  school,  and  knows  that  she  is  frail, 
And  she  can  bear  the  probe  when  brought  by  lore. 
But  of  neglect  beware !  Cherish  her  well ; 
For  should  the  breath  of  coldness  fall  on  her, 
Thou  wouldst  hear  no  complaint,  but  thou  wouldst  see 
Her  sink  into  the  grave,  as  the  green  leaves 
Shrive!  and  fade  beneath  autumnal  winds. 

It  is  a  struggle  hard  to  bear,  my  son, 
When  a  fond  mother's  cherish'd  flower  is  borne, 
Gently  transplanted,  to  a  happy  home  ; 
But  deeper  far  than  death's  the  withering  pang, 
To  see  her  sought  a  few  short  months  of  pride, 
Her  beauties  cherish'd,  and  her  odors  priz'd, 
And  then  thrown  by  as  lightly  as  the  weed, 
The  trampled  weed,  along  the  traveller's  path. 

And,  oh,  bethink  thee,  Edgar  of  her  soul, 
And  lead  her  in  the  heavenly  road  to  God. 
In  that  great  day,  when  mortal  hearts  are  bare, 
Motives  and  deeds,  before  the  Eternal  throne, 
Beware  lest  I,  with  earnest  pleadings  sue 
To  thee  for  this  sweet  child  !  Bring  her  to  me 
A  blessed  spirit,  wrapt  in  robes  of  grace, 
And  if  there's  gratitude  in  heavenly  bowers, 
Oh,  thou  shalt  hear  its  full  and  gushing  tones 
Rise  in  thanksgiving  from  a  mother's  soul ! 


C.G.  369 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD  IN  THE  CITY. 

BIRD  of  the  South  !  is  this  a  scene  to  waken 

Thy  native  notes  in  thrilling,  gushing  tone  ? 
Thy  woodland  nest  of  love  is  all  forsaken  — 
Thy  mate  alone ! 

While  stranger-throngs  roll  by,  thy  song  is  lending 

Joy  to  the  happy,  soothings  to  the  sad ; 
O'er  my  full  heart  it  flows  with  gentle  blending, 
And  I  am  glad. 

And  /  will  sing,  though  dear  ones,  loved  and  laving, 

Are  left  afar  in  my  sweet  nest  of  home, 
Though  from  that  nest,  with  backward  yearnings  moving, 
Onward  I  roam ! 

And  with  heart-music  shall  my  feeble  aiding, . 

Still  swell  the  note  of  human  joy  aloud ; 
Nor,  with  untrusting  soul-kind  Heaven  upbraiding, 
Sigh  mid  the  crowd.. 


"WHICH  IS  THE  BEAUTY?" 

I  SEE  her;  'tis  she  with  her  large  dark  eyes, 
That  glance  like  light  over  evening  skies  j 
Her  hair  in  ringlets  fluttering  free, 
And  her  lips  that  move  with  melody. 

"  Not  she.     There's  a  beauty  I  higher  prize 

"  Than  the  fringed  glance  of  those  radiant  eyes." 


370  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

I  see  her;  'tis  she  of  the  ivory  brow 
And  heaven-ting'd  orbs :  I  know  her  now, 
With  her  glancing  step,  and  look  of  life, 
And  voice  out-breaking  in  music's  strife. 

"Not  she.    There's  a  beauty  that  lovelier  glows 
"  Though  her  coral  lip  with  melody  flows." 

Then  it  must  be  she  of  the  brilliant  mind, 
With  her  spirit  attun'd  to  thoughts  refin'd, 
With  her  high  look  soaring  away,  away, 
To  ideal  worlds  where  angels  stray. 

"Not  she.    There's  another  more  lovely  still. 
"  With  a  chasten'd  mind,  and  a  tempered  will." 

I  see  her,  'tis  goodness  that  gilds  her  brow, 
Lake  the  sun  on  the  fruit  of  an  autumn  bough ; 
I  can  read  her  heart  like  an  opening  book, 
Thro'  each  change  serene  of  her  innocent  look. 

"  Yes ;  this  is  the  beauty  that  blossoms  fair, 

"  And  will  blossom  for  aye,  in  life's  garden  of  care." 


TO  . 

ON  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  sky  above  — your  quiet  bark 

By  soft  winds  blest ! 

Still  toil  in  duty,  and  commune  with  Heaven, 

World-weaned  and  free ; 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given, 

And  space  to  be. 


C.   G.  371 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 

To  plume  his  wing  — 
Space  for  the  ring-dove  by  her  young  to  lie, 

And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sun-flower,  bright  with  yellow  glow 

To  court  the  sky  — 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow, 

To  live  and  die. 

Space  for  the  ocean,  in  its  giant  might 

To  swell  and  rave  — 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun.  to  tread  his  path  in  might 

And  golden  pride  — 
Space  for  the  glow-worm,  calling,  by  her  light, 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  windi  blest. 


372  THE    LADIES'   WREATH. 


CHILDREN  AT  PLAY. 

SPORT  on  ;  sport  on  j 

A  mother's  thought,  shadow  of  heavenly  love, 
Dwells  on  you.    In  her  home,  mid  household  cares, 
Kindle  up  hopes,  which  deep 'in  its  soft  folds 
Her  inmost  soul  has  wrapt;     She  musing  asks, — 

"  What  his  high  fate,  that  boy  with  eagle  eye, 
And  well-knit  limbs,  and  proud  impetuous  thought  ? 
A  patriot,  leading  men,  and  breathing  forth 
His  warm  soul  for  his  country  ?  or  a  bard, 
With  holy  song  refining  earth's  cold  ear  ? 
A  son,  holding  the  torch  of  love  to  age 
As  its  closed  eye  turns  dimly  to  the  grave? 
Or  husband,  wrapping  with  protecting  arms, 
One  who  leans  on  him  in  her  trusting  youth  ? '' 

"  And  for  those  girls,"  she  asks,  "  what  gentle  fate 
Lies  cradled  on  the  softest  down  of  time  ? 
A  rosy  lot  miutt  garland  out  their  years — 
Those  sunny  eyes  with  laughing  spirits  wild, 
Those  rounded  limbs  are  all  unfit  for  want, 
Or  sterner  care.     Gently  will  they  be  borne 
On  beds  of  flowers,  beneath  an  azure  sky." 

Oh  dreams,  fair  dreams !    God's  dower  to  woman's 

heart, 

Your  light  and  waring  curtains  still  suspend 
Before  the  future,  which  lies  dark  behind. 


ELIZABETH  F  .  EL  LET. 


THE  literary  career  of  Mrs.  Ellet  has  been  brief,  but  thus 
far  very  successful.  It  is  only  about  three  years  since  she 
became  known  as  a  writer,  and  already  her  fame  is  estab- 
lished as  a  poetess  of  much  promise,  and  her  elegant  trans- 
lations from  the  Italian  and  French  poets  have  proved  her 
an  accomplished  scholar  in  those  beautiful  languages. 

Mrs.  Ellet  was  born  at  Sodus,  a  small  town  on  the  shores 
of  Lake  Ontario.  Her  father,  the  late  Doctor  Lummis,  was 
a  man  of  learning,  and  good  taste ;  but  he  lived  at  a  dis- 
tance from  all  learned  society  —  and  the  advantages  of  a 
common  school  education  were,  in  that  retired  place,  very 
limited.  However,  genius  does  not  depend  on  the  schools : 
Elizabeth  was  early  distinguished  for  vivacity  of  intellect 
and  poetical  talents ;  and  then  she  had  the  good  fortune  to 
attract  the  attention  and  secure  the  affections  of  a  congenial 
mind.  This  was  Doctor  William  H.  Ellet,  then  Professor 
of  Chemistry,  in  Columbia  College,  N.  Y.  He  married 
her  when  she  was  very  young,  only  about  seventeen,  and 
under  his  tuition  she  immediately  commenced  the  study  of 
the  modern  languages.  He  was  himself  a  sound  scholar, 
and  possessed  much  poetical  taste  ;  and  the  proficiency  of 
Mrs.  Ellet  not  only  proves  her  own  superior  powers  of  in- 
tellect, but  also  the  superior* talents  and  learning  of  her 

32 


374  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

tutor,  as  well  as  the  devotion  he  must  have  paid  to  her 
improvement. 

In  1833,  she  began  to  venture  her  productions  before  the 
public  eye,  her  first  poems  appearing  in  the  American  La- 
dies'  Magazine.     These  were  very   favorably  reviewed, 
and  she  has  gone  on  increasing  her  literary  acquaintance, 
till  she  is  now  a  regular  contributor  to  several  periodicals. 
The  articles  on  "  Italian  and  French  Literature  "  and  in 
the  "  Italian  and  French  Poets,  and  Poetry,"  which  have, 
at  different  times,  appeared  in  the  "  American  Quarterly," 
and  in  "  The  Southern  Literary  Journal  "  are  from  her  pen. 
In  1834,  appeared  her  translation  of  "  Euphemio  of  Mes- 
sina, "    one  of  the  most  admired    productions  of  Silvio 
Pellico.    Since  then   she  has  written  two  original  trage- 
dies, one  of  which,   (Teresa  Contarini)  is  printed  in  her 
volume    of   Poems,  published   a  few   months    since,    at 
Philadelphia.     This  tragedy    bears  the  same  impress   of 
pure  thoughts,  expressed  in  chaste  and  beautiful  language, 
which  marks  all  her  poetry.     There  is  not  much  original- 
ity of  invention  displayed  in  her  productions ;  but  her  ver- 
sification is  very  correct,  and  the  images  and  illustrations 
such  as  show  a  heart-warm  love  for  the  charms  of  nature. 
and  a  fancy  that  has  rerelled  in  the  beauties  of  the  classic 
world.     Her  eritical  taste  is  refined  by  a  thorough  acquaint- 
ance with  the  choice  writings  of  the  Italian  and   French 
schol  ars;  and  -he  has  lately  added  the  study  of  the  German 
language  and  literature  to  her  many   acquisitions.    Nor 
are  her  accomplishments  confined  to  the  merely  literary ; 
in  music  and  drawing  she  also  excels ;  and  in  the  graces 
that  adorn  society,  and  make  the  charm  of  social  and  do- 
mestic intercourse,  she  is  described  as  being  eminently 
gifted.    She  now  resides  at  Columbia,  S.  C. — her  husband, 
Dr.  Ellet,  being  chosen  to  a  Professorship  in  the  College 
at  that  place.     Her  fervid  and  active  mind  will  doubtless 
find  much  gratification  in  the  new  and  rich  scenery  of  the 
South — her  genius,  like  the  "  orange  blossom,"  seems  to 


E.  F.  E.  375 

require  a  sunny  climate,  in  which  to  expand ;  and  from  one 
who  has  so  sedulously  explored  the  beauties  of  Italian  lit- 
erature, and  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-two  established 
such  a  reputation  for  critical  learning  and  poetical  taste,  we 
expect,  for  the  future,  much  that  will  adorn  our  literature 
and  elevate  our  sex. 


SUSQUEHANNA. 

SOFTLY  the  blended  light  of  evening  rests 
Upon  thee,  lovely  stream!  Thy  gentle  tide, 
Picturing  the  gorgeous  beauty  of  the  sky, 
Onward,  unbroken  by  the  ruffling  wind, 
Majestically  flows.     Oh!  by  thy  side, 
Far  from  the  tumults  and  the  throng  of  men, 
.  And  the  vain  cares  that  vex  poor  human  life, 
'T  were  happiness  to  dwell,  alone  with  thee, 
And  the  wide  solemn  grandeur  of  the  scene. 
From  thy  green  shores,  the  mountains  that  inclose 
In  their  vast  sweep  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 
Slowly  receding,  toward  the  skies  ascend, 
Enrobed  with  clustering  woods,  o'er  which  the  smile 
Of  Autumn  in  his  loveliness  hath  passed, 
Touching  their  foliage  with  his  brillinnt  hues, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  lowliest  leaf  and  shrub 
His  golden  livery.     On  the  distant  heights 
Soft  clouds,  earth-based,  repose,  and  stretch  afar 
Their  burnished  summits  in  the  clear  blue  heaven, 
Flooded  with  splendor,  that  the  dazzled  eye 
Turns  drooping  from  the  sight.  —  Nature  is  here 
Like  a  throned  sovereign,  and  thy  voice  doth  tell, 
In  music  never  silent,  of  her  power. 


376  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

Nor  are  thy  tones  unanswered,  where  she  builds 
Such  monuments  of  regal  swny.     These  wide, 
Untrodden  forests  eloquently  speak, 
Whether  the  breath  of  Summer  stir  their  depths, 
Or  the  hoarse  moaning  of  November's  blast 
Strip  from  the  boughs  their  covering. 

All  the  air 

Is  now  instinct  with  life.     The  merry  hum 
Of  the  returning  bee,  and  the  blithe  song 
Of  fluttering  bird,  mocking  the  solitude, 
Swell  upward  — and  the  play  of  dashing  streams 
From  the  green  mountain  side  is  faintly  heard. 
The  wild  swan  swims  the  waters'  azure  breast 
With  graceful  sweep,  or,  startled,  soars  away, 
Cleaving  with  mounting  wing  the  clear  bright  air. 

Oh  !  in  the  boasted  lands  beyond  the  deep, 

Where  Beauty  hath  a  birth-right  —  where  each  mound 

And  mouldering  ruin  tells  of  ages  past  — 

And  every  breeze,  as  with  a  spirit's  tone, 

Doth  waft  the  voices  of  Oblivion  back, 

Waking  ihe  soul  to  lofty  memories, — 

Is  there  a  scene  whose  loveliness  could  fill 

The  heart  with  peace  more  pure  ?.—  Nor  yet  art  thou, 

Proud  stream !  without  thy  records  —  graven  deep 

On  yon  eternal  hills,  which  shall  endure 

Long  as  their  summits  breast  the  wint'ry  storm, 

Or  smile  in  the  warm  sunshine.     They  have  been 

The  chroniclers  of  centuries  gone  by  ; 

Of  a  strange  race,  who  trod  perchance  their  sides, 

Ere  these  gray  woods  had  sprouted  from  the  earth 

Which  now  they  shade.     Here  onward  swept  thy  waves, 

When  tones  now  silent  mingled  with  their  sound, 

And  the  wide  shore  was  vocal  with  the  song 

Of  hunter  chief,  or  lover's  gentle  strain. 

Those  passed  away  —  forgotten  as  they  passed  ; 


E.  F.  E.  377 

But  holier  recollections  dwell  with  thee : 
Here  hath  immortal  Freedom  built  her  proud 
And  solemn  monuments.     The  mighty  dust 
Of  heroes  in  her  cause  of  glory  fallen, 
Hath  mingled  with  the  soil,  and  hallowed  it. 
Thy  waters  in  their  brilliant  path  have  seen 
The  desperate  strife  that  won  a  rescued  world  — 
The  deeds  of  men  who  live  in  grateful  hearts, 
And  hymned  their  requiem. 

Far  beyond  this  vale 

That  sends  to  heaven  its  incense  of  lone  flowers, 
Gay  village  spires  ascend  —  and  the  glad  voice 
Of  industry  is  heard. — So  in  the  lapse 
Of  future  years  these  ancient  woods  shall  bow 
Beneath  the  levelling  axe  —  and  Man's  abodes 
Displace  their  sylvan  honors.     They  will  pass 
In  turn  away  ;  —  yet,  heedless  of  all  change, 
Surviving  all,  thou  still  wilt  murmur  on. 
Lessoning  the  fleeting  race  that  look  on  thee 
To  mark  the  wrecks  of  time  and  read  their  doom. 


YOUTHFUL  JOYS. 

THE  cloud,  where  sunbeams  soft  repose, 

Gilt  by  the  changeful  ray, 
With  tints  still  warm  and  golden,  glows, 

When  they  have  passed  away. 

The  stream,  that,  in  its  billowy  sweep, 
Bursts  from  the  mountain  side, 

Bears  far  into  the  calm  blue  deep,' 
Its  swift  and  freshening  tide. 
32* 


378  THE    LADIES'  WREATH. 

Thus  youthful  joys  our  hearts  can  thrill, 
Though  life  has  lost  its  bloom; 

And  sorrow's  hours  of  darkness  still 
With  lingering  charms  illume. 


TO  THE  LANCE-FLY. 

FORTH  with  the  breezy  sweep 

Of  spirit  wings  upon  thy  path  of  light, 
Thou  creature  of  the  sunbeam!  upward  keep 

Thine  earth-defying  flight ! 

The  glowing  west  is  still ; 

In  hallowed  slumber  sinks  the  restless  sea ; 
And  heaven's  own  tints  hare  wrought  o'er  tree  and  hill 

A  purpling  canopy. 

Go  — bathe  thy  gaudy  wing 

In  freshened  azure  from  the  deepening  sky  — 
In  the  rich  gold  yon  parting  sunbeams  fling, 

Ere  yet  their  glories  die. 

The  boundless  air  is  thine, 

The  gorgeous  radiance  of  declining  day  ; 
Those  painted  clouds  their  living  hues  entwine, 

To  dark  thy  heavenward  way. 

Soar  on  !  my  fancies  too 

Would  quit  awhile  the  fading  beauties  here, 
To  roam  with  thee  that  waste  of  boundless  blue  ! 

And  view  yon  heaven  more  near. 

Lost —  in  the  distant  page, 

Ere  my  bewildered  thoughts  for  flight  were  free  ! 
Farewell !  in  vain  upon  the  void  I  gaze,  — 

I  cannot  soar  like  thee ! 


E.   F.  E.  379 


WHO  ARE  THE  HAPPY? 

O'ER  the  far  mountain  peak  on  high, 
First  shines  the  morning  ray ; 

And  latest  from  the  crimson  sky 
The  beam  of  parting  day. 

Yet  there,  to  greet  the  partial  light, 
Nor  flowers  nor  verdure  bloom ; 

But  barren  all — though  coldly  bright — 
And  cheerless  as  the  tomb. 

While  in  the  modest  vale's  recess, 
Where  sunlight  scarce  descends, 

Fresh  flowerets  spring,  the  beam  to  bless, 
And  grateful  foliage  bends. 

Thus  hearts  that  bask  in  fortune's  smile, 
Undimmed  by  clouds  of  care, 

Feel  not  the  joys  their  hours  beguile, 
Which  humbler  bosoms  share. 


STANZAS. 

Written  while  sailing  through  the  Delaware  Water-Gap. 

ONWARD  with  gliding  swiftness, 
Our  light  bark  cleaves  the  deep ; 

The  billow  dances  in  our  wake, 
As  down  the  tide  we  sweep 


380  THE  LADIES'  WREATH, 

The  broad  high  cliffs  above  us, 

Like  giant  columns  stand  ; 
As  in  their  grandeur  stationed  there, 

The  guardians  of  their  land. 

Yon  purple  clouds  are  drooping 

Their  banners  from  on  high, 
And  brightly  through  their  waving  folds 

Gleams  forth  the  azure  sky. 
And  sunset's  beams  are  tinting 

The  mountain's  lofty  crest ; 
Yet  fails  their  golden  light  to  reach 

The  silent  river's  breast. 

The  eagle  soars  around  us  ; 

His  home  is  on  the  height, 
To  which  with  eager,  upward  wing, 

He  shoots  in  airy  flight. 
The  rough  night  blast  high  o'er  us, 

Assails  the  beetling  verge ; 
And  through  the  forests'  tangled  depths 

Murmurs  like  ocean's  surge  : 
The  foliage  trembles  to  his  breath, 

The  massive  timbers  groan  — 
But  we,  his  might  defying,  pass 

In  sheltered  silence  on. 

Onward!  dim  night  is  gathering; 

Those  gilded  summits  fade  — 
And  darkly  from  the  thickets  brown 

Extends  the  deep'ning  shade : 
It  shrouds  us,  but  we  pause  not :  — 

With  light  and  graceful  sweep, 
Shadowy  and  swift,  our  vessel  breaks 

The  waters'  glassy  sleep. 


E.  F.    E.  381 


Their  rocky  barrier  past  at  length, 
We  feel  the  cool  fresh  air ; 

Yon  light  is  beaming  from  our  home, 
And  welcome  waits  us  there* 


WORLDLY  CARES. 

THE  waves  that  on  the  sparkling  sand 

Their  foaming  crests  upheave, 
Lightly  reced  ng  from  the  land, 

Seem  not  a  trace  to  leave: 
Those  billows  in  their  ceaseless  play, 
Have  worn  the  solid  rocks  away. 

The  summer  winds,  which  wandering  sigh 

Amid  the  forest  bower, 
So  gently,  as  they  murmur  by, 

Scarce  lift  the  drooping  flower ; 
Yet  bear  they,  in  autumnal  gloom, 
Spring's  withered  beaut .ts  to  the  tomb. 

Thus  worldly  cares,  though  lightly  borne, 

Their  impress  leave  behind ; 
And  spirits,  which  their  bonds  would  spurn, 

The  blighting  traces  find; 
Till  altered  thoughts  and  hearts  grown  cold, 
The  change  of  passing  years  unfold. 


382  THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 


IS  THIS  A  DAY  OF  DEATH? 

la  this  a  day  of  death? 

The  heavens  look  blithely  on  the  laughing  earth, 
And  from  her  thousand  vales  a  voice  of  mirth 

And  melody  is  springing  ;  with  the  breath 
Of  smiling  flowers,  that  lilt  their  joyous  heads, 
Bright  with  the  radiant  tears  which  evening  sheds. 

Hath  sorrow's  voice  been  heard 
With  her  low  plaint,  and  broken  wail  of  woe? — 
Hark  to  the  play  of  waves  '.—and  glancing  now 

Forth  from  his  leafy  nest  th'  exulting  bird 
Pours  his  wild  carol  on  the  fragrant  gale, 
Bidding  the  sun-bright  woods  and  waters  hail ! 

Hath  happiness  departed  m 
From  this  glad  scene?  Is  there  alrome— a  hearth 
Made  desolate  ?  Alas  !  the  tones  of  earth 

Sound  not  in  concert  with  the  broken-hearted  ! 
Yon  sea — the  gorgeous  sun— the  azure  sky- 
Were  never  meant  to  mourn  with  things  that  die  I 


SARAH    JOSEPHA     HALE. 


IT  is  no  very  easy  matter  to  introduce  one's  own  "  Sketch," 
or  decide  on  the  relative  merit  of  one's  own  performances. 
That  I  have  written  some  things  not  unworthy  a  place  in 
this  collection,  I  certainly  believe ;  nor  could  I  see  that 
there  would  be  more  presumption  in  thus  including  them 
among  the  poems  of  my  sister  authoresses,  than  in  pub- 
lishing mine  in  a  separate  volume.  But  whether  to  pre- 
face them  or  not,  was  the  question.  I  flattered  myself  that 
those  who  were  interested  in  my  writings,  might  regret  the 
omission  of  any  notice  of  the  writer  :  to  speak  of  myself  in 
the  third  person  savored  too  much  of  affectation  ;  still  there 
is  great  discretion  required  in  using  the  great  I.  —  Finally, 
I  decided  to  confine  my  remarks  chiefly  to  the  influences 
which  have  made  me  what  I  am ;  —  as  thus,  it  appeared  to 
me,  my  history  might  be  of  some  benefit  or  consolation  to 
those  who  are  suffering  similar  sorrows,  or  struggling  with 
similar  difficulties  ;  and  such  of  my  readers  as  are  happily 
exempt  from  these,  may  find,  in  their  •" halcyon  lot"  th« 
reason  that  their  talents  have  never  been  directed  to  litera- 
ry pursuits.  Few  females  are  educated  for  authorship ; 
and  as  the  obstacles  which  oppose  the  entrance  of  woman 
on  the  fields  of  literature  are  many  and  great,  it  requires, 
usually,  a  powerful  pressure  of  outward  circumstances  to 


384  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

develop  and  mature  her  genius.  —  It  may  be  truly  said  oi 
her,  that 

"  Strength  is  horn 

In  the  deep  silence  of  long  suffering  hearts, 

Not  amidst  joy."  V^ 

My  family  name  was  Buell,  and  my  birth-place  New- 
port, now  a  pretty  village  nestled  among  the  "  green  hills  " 
of  New-Han^pshire.  My  parents  were  originally  from 
Saybrook,  Connecticut,  v^hich  they  left  soon  after  the  close 
of  the  revolutionary  war,  carrying  witn  them  to  the  then 
wilderness  of  the  North,  thai  love  of  learning  and  those 
strict  religious  observance;  which  distinguished  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  "  Charter  State."  But  goo  schpols  could  not 
at  once  be  established  in  the  new  settlements ;  and  I  owe 
my  early  predilection  for  literary  pursuits  to  the  teaching 
and  example  of  my  mother.  She  had  enjoyed  uncommon 
advantages  of  education  for  a  female  of  her  times — possess- 
ed a  mind  clear  as  rock-water,  and  a  most  happy  talent  of 
communicating  knowledge.  She  had  JM  many  of  the  old 
black-letter  chronicles  and  romances  Hj^he  days  of  chiv- 
alry ;  and  innumerable  were  .the  ballad!;  songs  and  stories 
with  which  she  amu-rd  an  I  instructed  her  children — for 
she  always  contrived  to  teach  us  some  serious  truth,  while 
she  charmed  us  by  these  legends.  We  did  not  need  the 
"Infant  School"  to  mike  u*  love  learning. 

The  books  to  which  I  had  access  were  few,  very  few,  in 
comparison  with  those  given  to  children  now-a-days;  but 
they  were  such  as  required  to  be  studied,  and  I  did  study 
them.  Next  to  the  Bible  and  Pilgrim's  Progress,  my  ear- 
liest reading  was  Milton,  Johnson,  Pope,  Cowper,  and  a  part 
of  Shakspeare— I  did  not  obtain  all  his  works,  till  some 
years  after.  The  first  regular  novel  I  read,  was  "  The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  when  I  was  about  seven  years  of 
age.  I  name  it  on  account  of  the  influence  it  exercised  over 
soy  mind.  I  had  remarked,  that  of  all  the  books  I  saw, 


SARAH   J.   HALE.  385 

few  were  written  by  Americans,  and  none  by  women. 
But  here  was  a  work,  the  most  fascinating  I  had  ever  read, 
always  excepting  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  written  by  a  100- 
man.  How  happy  it  made  me! — The  wish  to  promote 
the  reputation  of  my  own  sex  and  my  own  country,  were 
among  the  earliest  mental  emotions  I  can  recollect — and 
Jiad  I  then  been  told  that  it  would  be  my  good  fortune  to 
gather  even  this  humble  Wreath  of  poetical  flowers  from 
the  productions  of  female  writers,  I  should  have  thought  it 
the  height  of  felicity.  And  how  often  I  breathed  the  as- 
piration of  Burns,  when  reading  the  praises  of  European 
authors, — 

"  That  I,  for  my  dear  country's  sake. 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  might  make, 
Or  write  a  song,  at  least." 

These  feelings  had  a  salutary  influence  in  directing  my 
thoughts  to  a  definite  object ; — and  if,  in  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, common  sense  and  practical  usefulness  have  preclom- 
inated  over  romance  and  sentiment,  I  am  persuaded  that  I 
owe  this  result  to  my  early  mood  of  mind. 

From  my  brother  *  I  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the 
Latin  language,  and  of  Philosophy.  In  childhood  our 
studies  had  been  pursued  together,  and  he  seemed  very 
unwilling  that  I  should  be  deprived  of  all  his  collegiate 
advantages. 

I  had  written  some  poems,  a  few  of  which  were  publish- 
ed, previous  to  my  marriage;  and  during  my  husband's 
lifetime,  he  occasionally  sent  an  article  of  mine  to  the 
Journals,  though  my  chief  aim  in  literature  was  to  prepare 
something  for  the  amusement  of  our  own  fireside.  Till 
my  husband's  death,  which  occurred  September,  1822,  I 
had  never  seriously  contemplated  becoming  an  authoress. 
I  dare  not  speak  of  my  husband  as  I  think  he  deserved  ; 

*  The  late  Judge  Buell,  of  Glen  Falls,  N.  Y. 
33 


386  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

it  would  be  accounted  vanity  or  weakness ;  but  a  few  words 
respecting  one  whose  character  so  influenced  mine,  will,  I 
trust,  be  pardoned. 

The  pious  Mrs.  Graham,  named,   as   among  her  best 
earthly  blessings,  that  her  husband  was  a  man  of  "  sense 
and  sensibility:  "—such  a  man  was  David  Hale.    Of  a 
calm,  deliberative,  yet  tender  disposition,  he  united,  with  a 
cool  and  sound  judgment,  a  persevering  spirit  in  all  his 
pursuits;  quick  discrimination  and  refined  taste,  with  that 
benevolence  which  "hopeth  all  things,"  and  is  therefore 
always  kind :  his  was  that  combination  of  intellectual  and 
moral  powers,  which  make  the  perfectly  balanced  mind.  — 
He  was  a  number  of  years  my  senior  in  age,  but  far  more 
my  superior  in  knowledge.    His  profession,  the  Law,  he 
had  pursued  with  zeal  and  success,  but  general  literature 
occupied  much  of  his  leisure,  and  in  the  English  classics 
and  language  he  was  a  thorough  scholar.  —  Under  his  in- 
struction and  example,  my  prose  style  of  writing,  which 
the  critics  generally  allow  to  be  "pure  idiomatic  English," 
was  formed  ;  I  acknowledge  that  my  early  predilection  was 
for  the  pompous  words  and  sounding  periods  of  Johnson  ; 
and  I  had  greatly  admired  the  sublime  flights  and  glittering 
fancies  of  Counsellor  Phillips,  the  Irish  Orator,  then  in  the 
meridian  of  his  fame ;  but  my  husband  convinced  me,  by 
analyzing  his  sentences,  that  these  were,  as  he  had  called 
them,  "sublime   nonsense."     To  me,  the  period  of  our 
union  was  one  of  unbroken  happiness;  for  I  do  not  think 
that  ill  health  need  make  one  wretched  who  has  mental 
resources,  a  happy  home,  and  faith  in  heaven.    We  com- 
menced, immediately  after  our  marriage,  a  system  of  study, 
which  we  pursued  together,  with  few  interruptions,  and 
these  unavoidable,  during  his  life.     The  hours  we  allotted 
were  from  eicht  o'clock  in  the  evening  till  ten.    In  this 
manner  we  studied  French,  Botany,  then  almost  a  new 
science  in  the  country,  but  for  which  my  husband  had  an 
uncommon  taste ;  and  obtained  some  knowledge  of  Min- 
eralogy, Geology,  &c. ;  besides  pursuing  a   long  and  in- 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  387 

structive  course  of  reading.  —  In  all  our  mental  pursuits,  it 
seemed  the  aim  of  Mr.  Hale  to  enlighten  my  reason, 
strengthen  my  judgment,  and  give  me  confidence  in  my 
own  powers  of  mind,  which  he  estimated  much  higher 
than  I  did.  I  equalled  him  in  imagination,  but  in  no  other 
faculty.  Yet  this  approbation  which  he  bestowed  on  my 
talents  has  been  of  great  encouragement  to  me  in  attempt- 
ing the  duties  which  were  to  be  my  portion.  In  short,  had 
we  known  the  future,  the  course  pursued  could  not  have 
been  more  judicious.  But  such  a  result  seemed  utterly 
improbable,  for  he  enjoyed  the  most  perfect  health,  while 
mine  was  very  delicate.  Still  I  was  to  be  the  survivor  — 
he  died  suddenly,  as  with  a  stroke  —  and  with  him  seemed 
to  expire  every  earthly  hope.  His  business  was  large,  for 
the  country,  but  he  had  hardly  reached  that  age  when  men 
of  his  profession  begin  to  lay  up  property,  —  and  he  had 
spared  no  indulgence  to  his  family.  We  had  lived  in  com- 
fort, but  I  was  left  poor.  For  myself,  the  change  added 
not  one  particle  to  my  grief — but  for  my  children  I  was 
deeply  distressed.  I  had  five,  the  eldest  only  seven  years 
of  age ;  how  were  these  to  be  supported  and  educated  ? 
I  cared  not  that  they  should  inherit  wealth  —  I  never  cov- 
eted great  riches  —  but  to  be  deprived  the  advantages  of 
education  was  to  make  them  "  poor  indeed."  At  length, 
after  revolving  the  subject  deeply  in  my  mind,  I  determined 
to  attempt  to  provide  for  their  education  myself,  in  some 
measure  as  their  father  would  have  done.  I  resolved  to 
devote  my  whole  earthly  care  to  that  one  object,  and,  rely- 
ing on  Providence,  to  go  onward,  whatever  obstacles  might 
impede.* 

*  I  am  sure  that  the  benevolent  reader  will  be  glad  to  learn  that 
I  have  been,  thus  far,  successful  in  my  design.  My  eldest  son,  ed- 
ucated at  West  Point,  is  now  a  Lieutenant  in  the  U.  S.  service;  and 
from  his  small  pay  assists  me — and  my  other  children  are  so 
far  advanced  in  that  course  of  education  I  had  marked  out,  as  to 
give  me  good  reason  to  believe  that  I  shall,  in  a  few  years,  see  them 
intelligent  and  useful  members  of  the  community, 


388  THE   LADIES'    WREATH. 

The  very  few  employments  in  which  females  can  engage 
with  any  hope  of  profit,  and  my  own  constitution  and  pur- 
suits, made  literature  appear  my  best  resource.  I  prepared 
a  small  volume  of  Poems,  mostly  written  before  my  hus- 
band's decease;  these  were  published,  by  the  aid  of  the 
Free  Masons,  of  which  order  he  was  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber. My  next  work  was  "Northwood,"  a  novel  in  two 
volumes,  chiefly  descriptive  of  New-England  character 
and  manners.  In  1828  I  was  invited  to  come  to  Boston, 
and  take  charge  of  "  The  American  Ladies'  Magazine," 
there  to  be  established.  I  had  many  fears  for  its  success  ; 
no  publication  of  the  kind  had  been  long  sustained;  but 
the  adventure  promised  advantages  in  educating  my  chil- 
dren—and I  accepted.  I  have  continued  the  periodical  now 
almost  nine  years,  with  what  success  the  public  must 
judge.  The  task  has  been  an  arduous  one,  and  by  its  de- 
mand for  a  great  variety  of  intellectual  topics  has  prevent- 
ed me  from  attempting  any  connected  plan  of  much  im- 
portance. My  works  published  since  I  came  to  Boston,  are 
"  Sketches  of  American  Characters,"  "  Flora's  Interpreter," 
"  Traits  of  American  Life,"  and  several  books  for  children. 
I  have  found  many  kind  friends,  and,  relying  on  their  sup- 
port, I  have  prepared  this  work.  And  though  ray  own 
share  in  it  may  not  challenge  applause,  yet  I  trust  the 
critics  will  allow  that 

''Next  to  genius,  is  the  power 
Of  feeling  where  true  genius  lies." 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


THE  VICTOR'S  CROWN. 

A  CROWN  for  the  victor  —  a  crown  of  light!  — 
From  the  land  where  the  flowers  ne'er  feel  a  blight 
Was  gathered  the  wreath  that  around  it  blows, 
And  he,  who  o'ercometh  his  treacherous  foes, 

That  fadeless  crown  shall  gain: 
A  king  went  forth  on  the  rebel  array. 
Entrenched  where  a  lovely  hamlet  lay; 
He  frowned,  and  there's  nought  save  ashes  and  blood, 
And  blackened  bones  where  that  hamlet  stood, 

Yet  his  treacherous  foes  he  hath  not  slain. 

A  crown  for  the  victor — a  crown  of  light! 
Encircled  with  jewels  so  pure  and  bright, 
Night  never  hath  gloomed  where  its  lustre  flows  ; 
And  he,  who  can  conquer  his  proudest  foes, 

That  glorious  crown  shall  gain: 
A  hero  came  from  the  gory  field, 
And  low  at  his  feet  the  pale  captives  kneePd; 
In  his  might  he  hath  trodden  a  nation  down, 
But  he  may  not  challenge  the  glorious  crown, 

For  his  proudest  foes  he  hath  not  slain. 

A  crown  for  the  victor  —  a  crown  of  light ! 
Like  the  morning  sun,  to  the  dazzled  sight, 
From  the  night  of  a  dungeon  raised,  it  glows, 
And  he,  who  can  slay  his  deadliest  foes, 

That  shining  crown  shall  gain : 
With  searching  eye,  and  stealthy  tread, 
The  man  of  wrath  sought  his  enemy's  bed : 
33* 


390  THE   LADIES'   WREATH. 

Like  festering  wounds  are  the  wrongs  he  hath  borne, 
And  he  takes  the  revenge  his  soul  had  sworn, 
But  his  deadliest  foe  he  hath  not  slain. 

A  crown  for  the  victor  —  a  crown  of  light ! 
To  be  worn  with  a  robe  whose  spotless  white 
Makes  darkness  seem  resting  on  Alpine  snows; 
And  he,  who  o'ercometh  his  mightiest  foes, 

That  robe  and  crown  shall  gain : 
With  eye  upraised,  and  forehead  bare, 
A  Pilgrim  knelt  down  in  holy  prayer, 
He  hath  wrestled  with  self  and  with  passion  striven, 
And  to  him  hath  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  been  given, 

O,  crown  him,  for  his  foes,  his  sins  are  slain ! 


THE  TWO  MAIDENS. 

ONE  came  —  with  light  and  laughing  air, 
And  cheek  like  opening  blossom, 

Bright  gems  were  twined  amid  her  hair, 
And  glittered  on  her  bosom ; 

And  pearls  and  costly  bracelets  deck 

Her  round  white  arms  and  lovely  neck. 

Like  summer's  sky,  with  stars  bedight, 
The  jewelled  robe  around  her, 

And  dazzling  as  the  noontide  light 
The  radiant  zone  that  bound  her; 

And  pride  and  joy  were  in  her  eye, 

And  mortals  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 

Another  came  —  o'er  her  mild  face 
A  pensive  shade  was  stealing, 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  391 

Yet  \here  no  grief  of  earth  we  trace, 

But  that  deep  holy  feeling, 
Which  mourns  the  heart  should  ever  stray 
From  the  pure  fount  of  Truth  away. 

Around  her  brow,  as  snow-drop  fair, 

The  glossy  tresses  cluster, 
Nor  pearl,  nor  ornament  was  there, 

Save  the  meek  spirit's  lustre  — 
And  faith  and  hope  beamed  from  her  eye, 
And  angels  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  HOME. 

MY  son,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go; --but  never,  when  there, 

Forget  the  light  of  home. 

Though  Pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray : 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,  'twill  deepen  the  night, 

When  thou  treadest  the  lonely  way. 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire  ; 
'Twill  burn,  'twill  burn,  forever  the  same, 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  Ambition  is  tempest  tost, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam ; 

But  when  sails  are  shiver'd,  and  rudder  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home. 


392  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shall  see  the  beacon  bright  ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quench'd  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  Fame,  'twill  gild  the  name, 

But  the  heart  ne'er  feels  its  ray  ; 
And  Fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  like  beams  of  a  wintry  day: 

And  how  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be, 

Should  life's  poor  wanderer  come! 
But  my  son,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 

Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY. 

Addressed  to  my  Daughters  at  School 

ONE  day— it  is  a  trifling  theme, 

And  who  would  heed  a  day  ? 
An  evening's  gloom,  a  morning's  gleam, 

How  soon  they  pass  away  ! 
'Tis  but  a  welcome— an  adieu — 

The  fairest  day  is  gone  ; 
And  with  to-morrow's  hopes  in  view, 

We  bid  the  hours  roll  on  — 
To-day  like  bird  in  tethering  string, 
With  faded  eye,  and  folded  wing, 

Its  narrow  circle  creeps  j 
But  like  a  bird  in  airy  flight, 
With  wing  of  power  and  eye  of  light, 

To-morrow  heaven-ward  sweeps. 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  393 

Such  are  the  dreams  of  early  youth, 

Ere  dimm'd  by  gathering  fears  ; 
The  halo  round  the  orb  of  Truth, 

Presages  clouds  and  tears — 
I  trust,  my  loved  ones,  still  ye  see 

The  brightness  clear  and  pure, 
And  gloomy  thoughts  that  shadow  me 

Unmoved  I  can  endure  — 
The  vine,  even  its  prop  is  lost, 
Its  tendrils  torn  and  ten.pest-tost, 

May  shield  the  little  flower ; 
And  thus  I  bide  ihe  world's  rude  strife, 
That  I  may  shield  your  morn  of  life 

From  sorrow's  blighting  power. 

'Tis  sad,  as  years  grow  short,  to  know 

Death  only  brings  relief; 
But  saddest  far  of  earthly  wo 

Is  childhood  bowed  in  grief;  — 
In  sunny  skies  let  fledgings  fly  ; 

Be  prairies  green  and  fair, 
Ere  the  young  fawns  come  forth  to  try 

Their  glancing  footsteps  there. 
Nature  and  Instinct  guard  the  young — 
But  only  from  the  human  tongue 

Love's  holy  vows  are  given ; 
And  only  human  hearts  are  filled 
With  springs  of  Love,  that,  when  distilled, 

Rise  to  their  fount  in  heaven. 

And  thus  doth  feeling's  signet  prove 

Man's  origin  divine ; 
When  eye  meets  eye  in  trusting  love, 

We  feel  the  sacred  sign  : 
Of  life,  immortal  life  !  —  how  mild 

The  glorious  promise  shines, 


394  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

When  the  young  mother  o'er  her  child, 

First  reads  the  deathless  lines, 
The  spirit  on  its  clay  impresses, 
And  answers  with  her  warm  caresses, 

As  she  were  fain  to  bind 
Its  soul  to  her's ! —  And  this  is  Love  — 
'Tis  prayer  on  earth  ;  'tis  praise  above  ; 
'Tis  God  within  the  mind. 

And  in  Love's  name  I'll  drink  my  cup, 

Nor  deem  it  steeped  in  tears, 
While  fondly  I  am  garnering  up 

Rich  hopes  for  future  years. 
O,  I  shall  hear  glad  voices  say, 

"  Thy  children  bless  thy  care ! " 
These  are  my  cherished  dreams  to-day, 

And  who  has  dreams  more  fair  ? 
Dreams  will  they  prove  ? — I  fear  it  not — 
I  communed  with  my  secret  thought, 

Nor  selfish  wish  was  there — 
One  only — and  it  will  endure— 
"  O,  keep  my  dear  ones  good  and  pure ! " 

And  Heaven  will  hear  my  prayer ! 


SARAH  J.  HALE. 


THE  FATHER'S  CHOICE.* 

Now  fly,  as  flies  the  rushing  wind  — 

Urge,  urge  thy  lagging  steed  ! 
The  savage  yell  is  fierce  behind, 

And  life  is  on  thy  speed. 

And  from  those  dear  ones  make  thy  choice  — 

The  group  he  wildly  eyed, 
When  "  father ! "  burst  from  every  voice, 

And  "  child!  "  his  heart  replied. 

There's  one  that  now  can  share  his  toil, 

And  one  he  meant  for  fame, 
And  one  that  wears  her  mother's  smile, 

And  one  that  bears  her  name. 

*  In  the  year  1697,  a  body  of  Indians  attacked  the  town  of  Haver- 
hill,  Mass.,  killed  and  carried  into  captivity  40  inhabitants.  A  party 
of  the  Indians  approached  the  house  of  Mr.  Thurston,  who  was 
abroad  at  his  labor,  but  who,  on  their  approach,  hastened  to  the 
house,  sent  his  children  out,  and  ordered  them  to  fly  in  a  course  op- 
posite to  that  in  which  danger  was  approaching.  He  then  mounted 
his  horse,  and  determined  to  snatch  up  the  child  with  which  he  was 
most  unwilling  to  part,  when  he  should  overtake  the  little  flock. 
When  he  came  up  to  them,  about  200  yards  from  his  house,  he  was 
unable  to  make  a  choice,  or  to  leave  any  one  of  the  number.  He 
therefore  determined  to  take  his  lot  with  them,  and  defend  them 
from  their  murderers,  or  die  by  their  side.  A  body  of  the  Indians 
pursued  and  came  up  with  him ;  and  when  at  a  short  distance,  fired 
on  him  and  his  little  company.  He  returned  the  fire,  and  retreated 
alternately ;  still,  however,  keeping  a  resolute  face  to  the  enemy, 
and  so  effectually  sheltered  his  charge  that  he  finally  lodged  them 
all  safe  in  a  distant  house. 


396  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

And  one  will  prattle  on  his  knee, 

Or  slumber  on  his  breast ; 
And  one  whose  joys  of  infancy 

Are  still  by  smiles  expressed. 

They  feel  no  fear  while  he  is  near ; 

He'll  shield  them  from  the  foe  ; 
But  oh !  his  heart  must  break  to  hear 

Their  shriekings  should  he  go. 

In  vain  his  quivering  lips  would  speak; 

No  words  his  thoughts  allow ; 
There's  burning  tears  upon  his  cheek, 

Death's  marble  on  his  brow. 

And  twice  he  smote  his  cold  clench'd  hand 

Then  bade  his  children  fly  ! 
And  turned,  and  even  that  savage  band 

Cowered  at  his  wrathful  eye. 

Swift  as  the  lightning  winged  with  death, 
Flashed  forth  the  quivering  flame ! 

Their  fiercest  warrior  bows  beneath 
The  father's  deadly  aim. 

Not  the  wild  cries,  that  rend  the  skies, 

His  heart  or  purpose  move ; 
He  saves  his  children,  or  he  dies 

The  sacrifice  of  love. 

Ambition  goads  the  conq'rer  on, 
Hate  points  the  murderer's  brand  — 

But  love  and  duty,  these  alone 
Can  nerve  the  good  man's  hand. 

The  h«ro  may  resign  the  field, 
The  coward  murderer  flee  ; 


SARAH  J.   HALE.  397 

He  cannot  fear,  he  will  not  yield, 
That  strikes,  sweet  love,  for  thee. 

They  come,  they  come  —  he  heeds  no  cry, 

Save  the  soft  child-like  wail, 
"  O  father,  save ! "  "  My  children  fly  ! » 

Were  mingled  on  the  gale. 

And  firmer  still  he  drew  his  breath, 

And  sterner  flashed  his  eye, 
As  fast  he  hurls  the  leaden  death, 

Still  shouting,  "  Children  fly  !  " 

No  shadow  on  his  brow  appeared, 

Nor  tremor  shook  his  frame, 
Save  when  at  intervals  he  heard 

Some  trembler  lisp  his  name. 

In  vain  the  foe,  those  fiends  unchained. 

Like  famished  tigers  chafe, 
The  sheltering  roof  is  neared,  is  gained, 

All,  all  the  dear  ones  safe ! 


THE  SILK  WORM. 

THERE  is  no  form,  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm — to  draw  this  forth, 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 

I  saw  a  fair  young  girl — her  face 

Was  sweet  as  dream  of  cherish'd  friend- 
Just  at  the  age  when  childhood's  grace 
And  maiden  softness  blend. 
34 


THE  LADIES'   WREATH. 

A  silk-worm  in  her  hand  she  laid, 
Nor  fear,  nor  yet  disgust  was  stirred  ; 

But  gaily  with  her  charge  she  play'd, 
As  'twere  a  nestling  bird. 

She  raised  it  to  her  dimpled  cheek, 
And  let  it  rest  and  revel  there — 

O,  why  for  outward  beauty  seek  ! 
Love  makes  its  favorites  fair. 

That  worm — 1  should  have  shrunk  in  truth, 
To  feel  the  reptile  o'er  me  move  — 

But,  loved  by  innocence  and  youth, 
1  deemed  it  worthy  love. 

Would  we,  I  thought,  the  soul  imbue, 

In  early  life,  with  sympathies 
For  every  harmless  thing,  and  view 

Such  creatures  formed  to  please ; 

And  when  with  usefulness  combined, 
Give  them  our  love  and  gentle  care — 

O,  we  might  have  a  world  as  kind, 
As  God  has  made  it  fair  ! 

There  is  no  form  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm — to  call  this  forth 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 


SARAH    J.  HALE.  399 

TIME'S  LAST  VISIT. 

[There  is  a  Persian  legend  representing  Time  before  commenc- 
ing his  "  New  Year's  Flight,"  warning  those  who  are  to  die  during 
the  coming  season,  of  their  inevitable  fate.] 

THE  night  was  a  cold  and  stormy  one, 

And  the  year  was  running  low, 
When  Time  threw  his  travelling  mantle  on, 

As  he  were  about  to  go : 
And  he  cast  on  his  glass  a  rueful  look — 

"  The  sands  will  be  out,"  he  said, 
(Seizing  his  memorandum  book,) 

"And  these  visits  must  be  made  : 
But  it  does  little  good  the  fools  to  warn — 

T  almost  lose  my  labors  ; 
They  think  the  last  visit  I  make  to  them 

Is  always  meant  for  their  neighbors. 

Last  year  my  duty  was  faithfully  done — 

I  traversed  the  city  through, 
Revealing  to  every  devoted  one 

I  had  come  for  a  final  adieu : 
Why,  they  treated  my  warning  as  Nicholas  treats 

The  groans  of  the  dying  Poles  : 
Or  thought  'twas  to  save — (how  this  avarice  cheats !) 

Their  money  not  their  souls, 
That  my  hint  of  a  speedy  departure  was  given, 

Though  I  bade  them  farewell  like  a  lover; 
.And  how  few  there  were  who  prepared  for  heaven  ! 

I  can  easily  reckon  them  over. 

And  first  to  a  BANKER'S  house  I  hied, 
Though  I  knew  he  was  often  surly, 


400  THE   LADIES'   WREATH, 

But  these  Rothchilds — one  must  humor  their  pride — 

So  I  hasten'd  to  warn  him  early. 
I  found  him  within  at  a  sumptuous  feast, 

An  Aspician  sauce  was  before  him, 
And  its  flavor  he  praised  to  each  smiling  guest — 

'Tis  DEATH  ! — thus  my  warning  came  o'er  him. 
Oh,  how  his  eye  glared  as  he  bade  me  flee  ! 

I  was  offlike  a  twinkle  of  light, 
And  he  ate  at  that  dinner  enough  for  three, 

And  he  died  of  a  spasm  that  night. 

I  hurried  away  to  a  DOCTOR,  then, 

Though  I  knew  I  might  spare  my  pains — 
Thathe  thought  of  disease  as  the  end  of  men, 

And  of  death  as  the  doctors'  gains— 
'  My  patient  must  die,'  he  was  maundering  on, 

As  h."  glanced  a  fee-bill  o'er, 
'And  his  money  will  go  to  his  graceless  son,  — 

My  bill  might  be  somewhat  more ; 
For  the  youth  will  ne'er  take  the  trouble  to  note 

That  I've  charged  five  visits  a  day  :' 
So  he  figured  away,  while  I  laughed  in  his  ear, 

REMEMBER  MY  VISIT'S  TO  PAY  I 

I  told  an  OLD  MAN  it  was  time  he  should  go, 

And  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear:  — 
I  called  at  the  play  on  a  dashing  BEAU, 

And  he  was  too  gay  to  fear : — 
I  paused  in  a  MERCHANT'S  counting-room, 

And  a  dunce  was  I  to  stop, 
Scarce  would  he  have  heeded  the  crash  of  doom, 

While  reckoning  his  leger  up. 
THERE  is  ONE  DEMAND — I  began  to  say — 

He  burst  with  a  hurried  breath, 
'Show  me  your  bill,  I've  the  cash  to  pay' — 

I  left  him  to  settle  with  death  1 


SARAH  J.   HALE.  401 

I  stopped  at  a  POOR  MAN'S  humble  shed, 

And  thought  'twould  delight  him  so, 
For  I  knew  he  had  often  wished  he  was  dead — 

But  he  flatly  refused  to  go : 
And  O,  the  wild  agony  of  his  eye, 

As  he  begged  me  one  year  to  give  ! 
Saying,  'twas  too  bad  for  a  man  to  die 

Who  had  struggled  so  hard  to  live  ; 
That  his  wife  must  beg,  and  his  children  starve — 

I  whispered  of  charity ; 
He  raised  his  eye  with  a  look  of  despair — 

'  'Tis  a  broken  reed,1  sighed  he. 

I  had  fared  so  ill  with  the  lords  of  earth, 

Of  the  earth  they  had  proved  indeed, 
That  I  turned  to  the  sex  of  gentler  birth, 

Hoping  more  kindly  to  speed  ! 
On  the  beautiful  BELLE  I  made  a  call, 

A  milliner's  girl  stood  by  — 
She  brought  a  new  dress  for  the  New  Year's  ball — 

I  breathed  a  sepulchral  sigh, 
And  the  rich  red  flowers  looked  ghastly  white— 

'  How  odd  ! '  cried  the  beauty  in  sorrow; 
'  These  do  not  become  at  all  to-night, 

But  bring  me  some  brighter  to-morrow ' 

And  then — but  why  continue  the  list, 

So  fraught  with  chagrin  to  me  : 
Who  likes  to  remember  the  times  he  has  missed, 

When  recounting  his  archery  ? 
I  called,  in  fine,  on  the  old  and  the  young, 

Fair,  ugly  and  sober  and  gay, 
The  chorus  the  same  to  the  tune  they  all  sung  — 

They  would  not  be  hurried  away  ! 
There  were  many  who  hated  the  world,  to  be  sure, 

And  called  Time  an  old  villainous  cheat, 
34* 


THE   LADIES'  WREATH. 

But  Heaven  was  so  distant,  so  bright  and  so  pure  ; 
They  had  no  inclination  to  see't. 

WORMS  OF  THE  DUST  !  1  murmured  in  wrath, 

As  I  entered  a  stately  dome, 
And,  following  the  clue  of  my  fated  path, 

Repaired  to  a  nursery  room  ; 
The  children  were  sleeping  like  nestled  birds, 

And  SHE,  the  sweet  mother  dove, 
With  a  face  too  happy  to  paint  by  words, 

Was  choosing  her  gifts  of  love 
For  the  New  Year's  morn — 1  touched  her  cheek, 

She  knew  the  deadly  thrill, 
And  raising  her  eyes  with  a  smile  so  meek, 

— '  My  Father,  'tis  thy  will.' 

Yes,  WOMAN  should  always  be  ready  logo, 

She  has  nothing  on  earth  but  LOVE  ; 
A  dowry  that  bears  little  value  below, 

But  'tis  priceless  transferred  above: 

0  lavish  it  not  on  my  brightest  joys, 
'Tis  folly,  'tis  worse  than  vain; 

1  never  bestow  them  except  as  toys, 

I  mean  to  resume  again. 
Even  now  I  shall  gather  a  thousand  fair  things 

I  gave  when  this  year  was  new, 
And  the  hopes  for  the  NEXT,  that  I  shake  from  my  wings, 

Will  prove  as  deceitful  too. 

But  why  should  I  preach  ?  who'll  the  wiser  be  ? 

The  young  are  engaged  with  pleasure; 
The  aged  have  cut  all  acquaintance  with  me, 

And  nobody  else  is  at  leisure : 
They  may  learn  if  they  will,  tho'  their  date  is  brief, 

Some  monitor  ever  is  nigh; 
There's  the  fading  flower,  the  falling  leaf, 

And  the  year  about  to  die ;— 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  403 

These  speak  to  the  hearts  of  the  humble  and  just,  — 

For  the  earthly  and  obstinate : 
Why,  my  visit  to  such  would  be  labor  lost, 

So  I  leave  them,  for  aye,  to  their  fate. 


TO  A  PALM  LEAF. 

Gathered  from  a  tree,  that  shades  the  grave  of  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia, in  the  Isle  of  France. 

I'VE  looked  on  thee,  wan  leaf, 
Till  thou  dost  seem  the  messenger  of  fear, 

And  my  heart  thrills,  as  grief, 
Deep,  certain,  terrible,  were  hovering  near. 

I  see  the  gathering  storm, 
Darkness  and  whirlwind,  and  the  roaring  main!  — 

And  now  a  fair  young  form 
Beseeching  Heaven  for  aid  —  it  is  in  vain  ! 

She  rests,  that  lovely  maid, 
Wan  leaf,  she  rests  beneath  thy  parent  tree; 

And  in  that  hallowed  shade, 
Her  heart-struck  lover  slumbers  peacefully. 

They  need  not  glory's  wreath 
To  keep  their  memory  from  the  blight  of  years ; 

A  leaf  can  speak  their  death, 
And  from  the  full  soul  wring  a  gush  of  tears. 

But  autumn  winds  will  rise, 
And  scatter  far  our  forests'  waving  glory  j 

Yet  not  a  leaf  that  flies, 
Will  whisper  to  the  heart  this  moving  story. 

FOT  nature  hath  no  tongue 
Till  Genius  breathes  upon  the  slumbering  mass ; 


404  THE    LADIES'    WREATH. 

Till  Genius'  light  is  flung, 
We  heed  no  shadows,  beckoning  as  they  pass. 

But  all  is  still  and  dark, 
And  men  may  die  unheeded  as  the  rain 

Falls  round  the  gliding  bark, 
Urging  her  rapid  course  athwart  the  main. 

Yes,  more — the  cherished  worth, 
Of  all  men  strive  for  in  their  earthly  race, 

Fades  with  their  names  from  earth, 
If  Genius  smile  not  on  their  dwelling-place. 

Then  Genius,  with  the  free 
Come  dwell  —  our  broad  land  with  thy  presence  fill, 

Till  mountain,  stream,  and  tree, 
Shall  have  a  spell  to  move,  a  voice  to  thrill. 


MAN'S  FIRST  OFFERING. 

WHEN  nature  in  infancy  smiled, 

All  innocence,  beauty,  and  love, 
Ere  sorrow  had  blighted,  or  sin  had  beguiled, 

Or  the  serpent  had  banished  the  dove,  — 
Then  man,  as  Jehovah's  own  child, 

Still  worshipped  his  Father  above  — 
The  blue  vault  of  heaven  his  temple  sublime, — 
His  altar,  creation — his  offering,  time. 

The  "  seventh."  of  all  was  th*  tithe, 

The  heart  the  pure  censer  of  fire  ; 
The  incense  was  hallowed  with  gratitude  blithe, 

Which  bade  it  to  heaven  aspire  j 
(Then  change  had  ne'er  troubled,  for  Time  had  no  scythe,) 

And  seraphims  sounded  the  choir ; 
And  soft,  sweet,  harmonious  the  song  flow'd  around, 
Like  the  spirit  of  purity  breathing  in  sound. 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  405 


THE  AMULET. 

A  FEW  more  years,  my  cherished  one, 

And  these  will  soon  be  fled  ; 
And  where  will  then  my  little  son 

Repose  his  weary  head  ? 
Not  on  thy  mother's  faithful  breast,. 

As  thou  hast  done  to-day  j 
The  time  of  childhood's  happy  rest 

Will  then  be  passed  away. 

Thy  childish  pastimes  will  be  o'er, 

The  hoop  and  ball  thrown  by, 
And  "mother"  will  be  called  no  more 

To  teach  the  kite  to  fly : 
A  higher  flight  the  world  will  speak. 

To  charm  thy  youthful  heart  \ 
And  home's  soft  ties  will  lightly  break, 

And  thou,  too,  will  depart. 

I  know  that  this  must  be— I  know 

A  man  must  join  the  throng  ; 
As  palms  in  sunshine  loftier  grow, 

And  oaks  in  storms  more  strong, — 
So  man's  bold  virtues  best  unfold 

Beneath  the  world's  broad  sky  ; 
And  yet  the  mother's  home  how  cold, 

When  all  her  birds  can  fly ! 

O,  many  a  time,  when  pressed  with  care, 

Or  sick  with  pain  and  grief, 
And  none  my  soul's  deep  thoughts  to  share, 

I've  found  a  sweet  relief 


406  THE  LADIES'  WREATH. 

From  gazing  on  thy  face,  my  boy, 
In  life's  pure  morning  bright ; 

'Twas  as  the  smiling  beam  of  joy 
To  sorrow's  lonely  night. 

And  many  a  time  the  midnight  hour 

Has  found  my  task  delayed  ; 
My  spirit  felt  a  withering  power — 

The  cypress'  gloomy  shade: 
In  rain  to  frame  the  song  I  sought, 

Its  burning  visions  gone, 
'Till  from  thy  peaceful  rest  I  caught 

The  hope  to  bear  me  on. 

And  tell  me  not  to  crush  that  hope, 

How  false  such  fancies  prdre, 
That  bitterest  minglings  of  our  cup 

Are  poured  by  those  we  love. 
There's  One  can  prosper  all  my  care, 

And  He  my  toils  will  bless  — 
The  tender  watch  that  sparrows  share, 

Will  guard  my  fatherless. 

And  he  can  bless  the  amulet 

A  mother's  love  would  frame, 
Make  wisdom's  gems  these  words  I  set 

Tried  in  the  heart's  pure  flame. 
Then,  dear  one,  bear  this  song  of  home 

Graved  on  thy  memory, 
And  when  the  world's  temptations  come, 

Thou  wilt  remember  me. 


SARAH  J.  HALE.  407 


THE   THREE  SCEPTRES. 

A    VISION. 

"  BRING  forth  the  sceptres  of  command !  " 

That  awful  voice  I  heard  — 
"  And  let  the  subject  nations  stand  !  " 

The  waiting  world  appeared. 
Then  drew  the  sceptre-bearers  nigh, 
Old  Asia,  first,  crept  cowering  by ; 
Next  Europe,  with  her  troubled  eye; 

Then  young  America : 
Each  placed  her  sceptre,  passed  ;  and  then, 
Unveiled  before  the  sons  of  men, 
A  Sword,  a  Crosier,  and  a  Pen 

Upon  the  altar  lay. 

Again  the  voice  uprose,  and  loud 

Like  battle-cry  it  came, 
And  wildly,  from  that  heaving  crowd, 

Echoed  the  shout  —  "  For  Fame !  " 
Brother  'gainst  brother  fiercely  stood, 
The  earth  was  graves,  the  rivers  blood  — 
Kingdoms  were  crushed,  as  wasting  flood 

Had  swept  o'er  crumbling  clay,  — 
Till,  'mid  the  din,  a  dove  appeared  ! 
The  heavenly  tone  of  "  Peace  ! "  was  heard 
I  looked,  and,  with  that  gentle  word, 

The  Sword  had  passed  away ! 

Then  like  a  storm  of  ashes  hurled 

From  the  volcano's  height, 
A  thick,  dark  cloud  rolled  o'er  the  world, 

Blotting  Mind's  blessed  light  — 


408  THE   LADIES1   WREATH. 

And  men  sunk  down,  in  utter  dread ; 
Mailed  warriors,  weak  as  infants  tread, 
And  monarchs,  with  uncovered  head, 

Stooped  low  the  cowl  before; 
And  Superstition's  iron  reign 
Has  seared  the  heart,  and  shrunk  the  brain  — 
Ha  !  —  Thought's  strong  grasp  has  rent  the  chain  ; 

The  Crosier's  sway  is  o'er. 

Pure  as  the  light  on  altar  glows, 

Lit  up  by  prophet's  prayer, 
A  small,  soft,  steady  light  arose 

On  earth,  on  sea,  and  air  ; 
It  shines  as  shed  from  seraphs'  wings, 
Withering  all  vile,  old,  useless  things  — 
Like  scorched  flax  from  the  grasp  of  kings 

The  reins  of  empire  sever; 
It  burns  from  Craft  his  mask  of  night, 
Intemperance  blasts  with  perfect  light, 
And  shows  the  Ethiop'ssoul  is  white, — 

"  The  Pen  —  the  Pen  forever  ! " 

Thus  rang  the  voice  —  its  trumpet  tone 

Burst  like  a  swelling  river; 
From  land  to  land  went  sounding  on, 

"  The  Pen  —  the  Pen  forever ! " 
I  saw  earth's  joyous  millions  move, 
Justice  their  shield,  their  banner  love, — 
While  Freedom's  eagle,  high  above. 

Soared  with  unslumbering  eye  ; 
Cool  springs  gushed  forth  mid  arid  sands, 
Bright  flowers  sprung  up  in  desert  lands, 
And  bands  of  peace,  from  angel  hands. 

Were  linking  earth  and  sky. 


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